


Tracks in the wind

by StormXPadme



Series: Tales Untold [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Blood and Injury, Broken Heart, Casual Sex, Cave trolls, Deep throat, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Healers, Houses of Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infertility, Ithilien, M/M, Mearas, Medical Procedures, Memory Alteration, Minas Tirith, Mordor, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Poisoning, Prostate Massage, Rohan, Sailing To Valinor, Sea-longing, Semi-Public Sex, Separations, Swordfighting, Telepathic Bond, Third Age, based on movies and books except for the Hobbit movies, black Mearas, cair andros, learning how to deep throat, sam is the only smart person in the room, the epic tale of Aragorn being done with the whole family Oropherion's shit, which should totally be a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22348756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormXPadme/pseuds/StormXPadme
Summary: When Arwen rides to the Black Gate to support Aragorn in his last big battle, without knowledge or permission of her father, catastrophe ensues. In the sick camp of Cair Andros, the future King now has to to put all his ability to the test, for unrecognized, someone else followed the companions.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Legolas Greenleaf, Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Arwen Undómiel & Glorfindel, Erestor/Glorfindel (Tolkien), Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Legolas Greenleaf, Legolas Greenleaf/Original Female Elf Character(s), Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: Tales Untold [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559689
Comments: 44
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cover: http://racoonicorn.myartsonline.com/titw.jpg
> 
> This is a translation of part #3 of one of my longest finished German fanfiction series (https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/45bce3010000161f06700fa0/1/Tales-Untold-TRACKS-IN-THE-WIND-3-). I am not a native speaker and apologize for any mistakes. The "Tales Untold"-series focuses much on Aragorn, Legolas and their respective relationships, but there's lots of other important plot lines coming into play, one of the biggest revolving around Glorfindel and Erestor.
> 
> The series combines the book verse with some circumstances from the movieverse, it ignores all of three of the Hobbit movies though (I wrote most of this series before those movies even were a thing). It's slightly non-compliant in places but I'm always trying to keep close to canon.
> 
> "Tracks in the wind" is set during and right after the War of the Ring.
> 
> Comments are more than welcome. I'm thirsting for them like so many others.
> 
> WHAT HAPPENED SO FAR:  
> Shortly before the War of the Ring, Legolas has become betrothed to a young healer elf from Lórien named Tarisilya whom he's been in love with for about a 1000 years. King Thranduil's aversion against Lórien makes it necessary to keep the relationship a secret for now. Right after the Battle of Helm's Deep, Legolas was assaulted by two hostile men. After healing him, Tarisilya traveled to Mithlond to sail west but at the last moment decided to stay in Middle-earth for him.

**_A_** ctually, Arwen was certain that she would manage to sneak into the stables unseen after getting some her brothers' spare armor from the storage hall, one of the many leftovers in this old cave outpost near the Gap of Rohan. That this camp was seldom used these days had its advantages. The many essentials left behind here that she could help herself with, saved her a detour to Edoras … or an even further ride to one of the elven realms, where her people would probably have used soft power to keep her from leaving again.

Only for a moment, she stared at the slightly dusty metal with hesitation before putting it on. The harness wasn't fitted to her shape; she should long have asked the blacksmiths to make her one suitable for conflicts like the one waiting for her. Just one neglect of the last weeks that she had spent in downright lethargy, that was coming to bite her in her behind now. In the past, she had rarely needed so much protection when she had left for battle. Now that probably the biggest fight of her life was waiting for her, she would have to get through the upcoming quick ride in spite of edges uncomfortably pressing into her skin and additional weight on her shoulders.

Arwen was fully aware, it wasn't an easy duty that she was inflicting on herself. But everything was better than bearing the ongoing worry that left her in tears again and again. Aragorn, Legolas and their friends kept on risking their lives for the Free Folks out there. Arwen had been sitting idle long enough, hoping that everything would be fine.

The fact she had already allowed her family to keep her from supporting the Fellowship in Helm's Deep, had almost led to the death of one of her best friends, and that was all the wake-up call she had needed. For the fight at the Hornburg had not only left Legolas with physical scars, as another of the many terrible news from the realms of Men, received on that inspection ride earlier, had revealed. It was the first time for Arwen to be on horseback after the brief, dangerous exhaustion resulting from her decision for a mortal life, and she was already realizing how much she had missed in this short time.

In that moment, she had known that she wouldn't return home like she had promised her brothers. That she wouldn't be joining the scouts again that she had come here with. She was in the wrong place here, riding with a small group of soldiers to keep the area at least somewhat safe for civilians and for the many elves traveling to Mithlond these days, while the last battle of this war would be decided somewhere else, and very soon.

Arwen wouldn't take a seat in the second row any longer. Sauron's monsters had tortured and killed too many already, elves among them; they would bleed for that. And at least she wouldn't need to blame herself afterwards for not having contributed enough to the victory.

Maybe the fight of the Men in Gondor was nothing but desperation, a futile last rearing up, just like her father had said. Maybe not even the reforged sword of Kings could make a difference; maybe Gondor would already be defeated by the time Arwen arrived.

But when her father had left to bring to the Fellowship personally a last, maybe the most important gift of all, at least part of Arwen's strength had returned. The relief that Elrond had indeed not only accepted her decision for the life of a Secondborn, that he had also finally set aside his doubts about the steadfastness of Men, had urged her out of her bed. And that chance to get active again, she had just had to seize immediately.

To leave this stopover just as quietly behind as Imladris now, she only had to escape the much too sharp observation of her companions.

She really seemed to have made it into her horse's stall with without attracting attention, that was a start. Actually, she had chosen the immature but at least really fast animal this morning out of necessity. While her father, ironically, had been trying to con her into accepting the young stallion for a while, Arwen had mostly hoped to not be noticed on his back, especially not by an elf who would know exactly that she was leaving without her father's permission, only with the reluctant approval of Elladan and Elrohir. Now she was glad for the odd pick; Alagas' speed was exactly what she needed right now.

Before she had even finished picking his hooves though, a well-known voice behind her had her startle.

"You will not ride to Gondor, Arwen."

So much for not being spotted by the wrong elf. She had expected Thondrar or maybe her father's eccentric librarian, if someone would actually chase her down in this camp that she just didn't want to see right now. The former was probably too busy defending the borders from single groups of orcs once more, which would soon be joined by hundreds of other creatures, if someone didn't brace their feet against the threatening black wave.

Arwen wouldn't let anyone keep her from at least trying that anymore.

Turning around angrily, she stared into the youthful face of the elf who had taught her more about fighting in just a few decades than she had learned in Lórien in centuries before. "Get out of my way, Glorfindel. Or I'm afraid I'll have to ride you down."

"You do not have the heart to." Approaching slowly, he stopped at the waist-high stall door as if he wanted to keep it closed with his bare hands until Arwen would yield. "It _is_ good that you are back on your feet, do not get me wrong. But why insist on getting yourself killed in the distance? There is enough to do in Imladris. Be rational. You are not doing well enough. Your body is going through crucial changes. The lines in Erestor's book are unmistakable. You are not as strong a close combat fighter as before. Why risk that?"

"Because we'll all die anyway! Who cares _where_ I will?" Startled by her own cynical tone of voice, Arwen bit her lip.

She had known this elf for half an eternity. He had taken care of her brothers and her, until they had known how to do so themselves. And not only of them. Arwen had no doubt that Glorfindel would ride out with the others again in a few minutes, to fight at whatever front he was needed at. He wasn't among those who were leaving this world in droves. As long as he possibly could, he would keep up the defenses of the valley, even if it cost him everything … for a second time in his long life. It just wasn't fair. Arwen was very close to tell _him_ to go back to Imladris and fortify there.

"As you said: At home, I'd go to battle just the same. This way, I have at least a chance of seeing him one last time."

"And if Men succeed but you perish in their fight? Estel would not want that. All your waiting would be for nothing then."

"I ..." Arwen's short hesitation revealed that part of her was indeed afraid of what was waiting upon her arrival.

"Once in the midst of battle, you cannot go back. No matter how this conflict ends, there is no secure stronghold in the east."

For a moment, Arwen stayed silent, then she shook her head. It didn't make a difference. Only for her, it might, for both Aragorn and her. "I know." Leaning over the door, she gently put her hand on her friend's shoulder. "But if the Free Folks lose this war, there won't be any here, either. And I've got nowhere to escape, you know that. I don't want to consider throwing myself onto a dagger just to escape torture, once we fail to hold the borders and orcs storm the valley. You are the tactician here, I don't need to tell you that. If that happens, the basin will become a prison. I don't want to die like an animal in a trap, but with my weapon in my hand."

Motioning him to bend down a little, she placed a kiss on his forehead. "Thank you for all your care and friendship. Take care of yourself. Who knows if we'll ever meet again?"

She quickly turned away before her doubts could get the better of her after all. Not for the first time this millennium, she had to decide to be either with her beloved or her family. She couldn't risk turning now from a path once more, that she had started on with such a heavy heart in the first place.

Fortunately, Glorfindel didn't try to persuade her again. Instead, he proved once more how important her safety was to him. Enough to make one of the biggest sacrifices possible. "Take Asfaloth again. He will get you faster to Gondor than even Alagas could. Use a saddle and spare bridle though, or you will be recognized on the way already."

"I will guard him with my life." Gratefully, with tears in her eyes, Arwen squeezed the general's shoulder once more. While it wasn't the first time Glorfindel borrowed her his beloved stallion, it never before had been so important to ride like the wind.

She could only hope to be able to keep her promise. A grim intuition told her that she might indeed not see Glorfindel again to give him back his loyal companion. This farewell might be forever. When the pain threatened to steal her breath, she quickly hurried off to the tack room. If she stopped for even a second now, she would really not have found the courage to leave.

Gondor's first big battle in the War of the Ring was won, but that didn't mean it was over.

A silence was spreading outside the gates of Minas Tirith. Looking over the walls of the inner city rings, stray fires could be spotted between many of the tents in the fields. When the wind wasn't carrying any noise into the city for a moment, shouts from the men down there could be heard. For the first time in days, the sky over Gondor's capital had stars. One could almost believe the conflict to be over.

In the east, the shadow of the Dark Lord still was clearly visible though. Flashes lit the horizon in irregular intervals. The army of Mordor might be defeated for now, but Sauron would never give up. He would always keep on reaching his hand towards the west.

At least until next time, the soldiers could recover from the last strains.

Aragorn sneaked through the deserted feeling streets of one of the outer rings, basically just trying to find out which of his many duties had the highest priority right now. Trying his best not to be recognized by the few residents still on their way at this time, because he couldn't help _every_ trouble brought to his attention, he also tried to ignore the sight of the charred surroundings. He didn't need the image of half-burnt down walls in his head to know that the home of his ancestors had almost fallen today.

Mourning wouldn't change anything about that. Minas Tirith wouldn't be what it had once been for a long time to come.

Until the main gate had been breached, people had probably still told themselves they would be safe behind the white walls. After all, death was only waiting _outside_ the city. Only there, orcs had been roaming about the fields, setting ablaze what they could find as was their way. But they had never come any closer. People must have heard them digging by the walls but apparently, none of the citizens had ever considered that the powerful stone buildings could give in. Just like Rohan's King, they had felt just a little _too_ safe in their well-guarded home.

Then the catapults had arrived. Soon after that, the main gate had burst open. One enemy after the other had entered the city; at that moment, the war had been forced into the lives of this realm's people another inch deeper. At that point, just like in Helm's Deep not too long ago, civilians in the inner rings had only been able to barricade themselves, crying and screaming with fear, while their fathers, husbands, sons and brothers had fallen one by one.

Cynical thoughts were going through Aragorn's head on his difficult, aimless stroll through the debris. Like the hope that even the last deluded Secondborn had now realized, there was no safe place, nowhere left to flee on this world. That for the Free Folks, there was only the chance to not suffer even more loss if they'd all stick together.

As of now, not all the victims were even uncovered yet. With so many hours since the last troops of Sauron's army had fled back to Mordor, it was actually useless to look for survivors on the battlefield or in the ruins. Yet hundreds of citizens didn't give up hope to find friends or family members alive. Helpless anger filled Aragorn whenever he had to witness one of the seekers making a find and another much too young face was looking at them from empty eyes.

Every time, he felt reminded of that bloodcurdling scream on the Pelennor Fields when young Éomer had stumbled over the body of his uncle, long after the King had died. And then he'd had to spot the lifeless body of his sister next, about whose rebellious contribution to this battle no one had been informed beforehand.

At this point there was no telling if Éowyn at least, could survive her many wounds.

Of course, Aragorn would do his best to help both her and the son of the Steward who had perished in this last dispute as well ... as soon as they could do without him in the other areas of distress. He had to try at least. Faramir of all people – Boromir's little brother. A fact that not only kindled the deeply rooted pain about Aragorn's slain Ring Companion, but also the worry to lose even the last member of that family now. Such heavy wounds, including inner damage by arrows and blades, stretched even the healing arts that Aragorn had learned from the elves to its limits.

And all these people had probably died in vain or would fall in the next few hours or days, one way or another. The Dark Lord would not accept this defeat. He would return, with an even bigger army then.

Well, he would be expected. With a grim bristle, Aragorn felt for the handle of his sword on his belt, the legendary blade that Lord Elrond had brought him before that risky, morbid ride into the mountains. Finally, after decades of doubt on both sides. And along with this fateful weapon, his foster father had given Aragorn another reason to fight the threat of Mordor until the last drop of blood, to his last breath.

Arwen's decision to give up her life as an elf for Aragorn was finally set in stone. And this choice that every Firstborn could make when one of their parents or grandparents had Men blood, had got her into lethal danger quicker than Aragorn had expected in his worst imagination. The ever-present darkness in the east, the aggression, the thirst for power, all that destruction and murder threatening to choke Middle-earth, had made some elves in the woods of Lórien sick with grief and fear already.

Aragorn had seen that with his own two eyes. He should have anticipated, it wouldn't be any different in Imladris. He should have listened to his nightmares.

Of course, this light-consuming blackness would not leave the Evenstar of all realms unspoiled, not right after trading the resilient mind of a Firstborn for a much more fragile one. Arwen had decided to stay, with him, for him. There was no way back now. And for that, she would pay the highest price possible, if Sauron wasn't destroyed anytime soon.

She would lose her life just like all of them. If not from her grief-filled weakness then at the latest, when Sauron's henchmen overran the last border security of Elrond's courageous warriors.

There was nothing left to lose. There was only the desperate fight for their freedom, for their friends, their family and everyone they loved. And if they failed, Aragorn would do it with his weapon in his hand, just like his friends. To take as many of those monsters as possible with him alone, who had killed so many.

Boromir. The King. Now Éowyn, maybe. And Faramir …

Enough of this. For now, he had seen enough death. Aragorn should rather be with those who could still be helped. In the city rings he couldn't be of much use; he knew that now. Too much chaos and suffering around every corner, and only few would be recovered now who were still were breathing. Aragorn's abilities were of greater benefit when he used them deliberately.

A quite aged guard at the gate to the inner ring nodded at him amicably. Aragorn hadn't thought it possible, but although it was decades since he had last been in the White City, in some places, he was still being recognized. At least one old acquaintance, he did not have to mourn.

While the outer rings felt like a huge graveyard, the city core represented the very opposite. Since the siege, the residents lived in crowded spaces and tried to handle the battle's effects on the social life. Even now, long after dark, many women walked the streets, looking for good news about their relatives. Children cried for their fathers; some who fared especially ill cried for both their parents. There was a shortage of both housing and supplies. The war had taken everything from these people. Work for women with jobs usually given to men was rare, since people were unwilling to involve females in war dealings. The few sparse food rations in the city were given to kids whose mothers didn't know what to do. Right now, members of the army were probably the only ones in Minas Tirith with some jewelry or coins to spare.

Aragorn's way to his destination became accordingly tedious. More than once, he quickly had to turn aside when someone gave in to the desperate temptation of relieving him of anything. He hardly had anything of value on him anyway, and he really didn't feel like bringing a thief to justice, on top of their already unfortunate situation.

People had to learn to overcome their pride and ask for help, and to be there for each other as well as possible, until the city would recover from the last months and hours … if that was ever to happen. In times like these, citizens of Minas Tirith at least shouldn't have to fear each other.

But Aragorn had no right declaring that, not yet and maybe never. As was the case with many Dúnedain, no kind of emblem assigned him to any kind of realm. The only real home he'd ever had, at least in the first two decades of his life, was Imladris. But wearing a sigil of Lord Elrond's home would have felt awkward. He wasn't an elf; he would never be one of the Firstborn, as much as he cared for this folk.

He wasn't Gondorian either, at least no one knew him to be. He simply had no say about anything in this city. As long as that wasn't the case, he didn't want to meddle with administration matters. As long as there might not be a future for any of them, he preferred people not knowing who he was.

So he breathed an audible sigh of relief when he finally reached the sixth city level and could join a small group of people in front of the Houses of Healing, half of his face still covered by his hood.

One of the Men so caught up in the debate that he paid hardly any attention to him, was Éomer. The young man still looked quite shaken, his long, sand blond hair stiff with dirt, his armor blood-stained. The Prince of the peninsular realm Dol Amroth, located south of the city, had also joined the conversation. And then there was Mithrandir of course, the high wizard who had done so much for the rescue of Minas Tirith.

Imrahil could only just now have learned about Denethor's sad fate, and about Faramir being grievously injured after the failed reconquest of Osgiliath. "So victory is shorn of gladness, and it is bitter bought, if both Gondor and Rohan are in one day bereft of their lords. Éomer rules the Rohirrim. Who shall rule the City meanwhile? Shall we not send now for the Lord Aragorn?"

So much for turning to the wounded. Aragorn sighed soundlessly. He should have known that since Elrond's visit in Dunharrow, such modesty could no longer be part of his life. Taking another deep breath, he tried to suppress the burdensome events of the last hours and minutes, to find strength for the ones yet to come.

"He is come." Pulling back his hood, he stepped forward. Relief spread on the men's faces when they recognized him. "I have come because Gandalf begs me to do so."


	2. Chapter 2

Fortunately, they had agreed quickly on Imrahil needing to govern the city until Faramir would - with any luck - recover a little. An unusual solution but since it was merely transitional, the citizens would hopefully have no problem with it. The royal with the dark hair and the ocean grey eyes was known in the city as a capable and generous man. His people had helped Minas Tirith out in hard times before, with both combat power and supplies ... And between the four of them, he simply had the most experience with leading a settlement.

The actual leadership especially in war matters was still resting on Mithrandir's shoulders anyway.

For Aragorn, that was a big relief. He himself was still needed too much on the battlefield and with the injured. Right now, he couldn't and didn't want to deal with his heritage and the duties inevitably coming with it in the foreseeable future.

Instead, he did what he was really good at in the Houses of Healing, as long as he possibly could. Only many long hours of using all his powers later, his body and soul needed some rest; so he reluctantly ordered himself to take some. It was no use; that was a situation, every healer was facing at some point.

Those building the Houses of Healing back then had already known that. The building complex with its many living accommodations separate from the sick rooms reflected the wish for a break as much as the surrounding gardens. The latter's lavish richness had hardly any equal in the city.

Even here, it was difficult to shut down his thoughts though, having only just finished fighting for the lives of close friends. For people who had nothing left but that their life, like Éowyn. For people that so many Gondorians now placed their hopes in, like Faramir. In the end, all of those new battles had left hardly more than weak gratification, just like the one on the Pelennor Fields.

Retreating to find something to eat didn't offer any balance when getting there included passing a terrace that provided a clear view east. That darkness raging in the shape of ever-fiercer storms over Mordor revealed that the enemy had indeed only withdrawn, of course, and not given up. The depressing picture couldn't keep Aragorn in this place long, in spite of the soothing atmosphere that a quietly spluttering fountain and the seemingly endless view over the country offered.

Aragorn rather chose to stroll through the gardens, protected from spectators by high walls. Down here, there were only trees, soft grass and the smell of green, of something new, something growing. The light smell of smoke above the city could be ignored with a little bit of imagination. Here, he could successfully succumb to the illusion of being alone for a while. Imagine being back where he had been at the beginning of this whole adventure: in the woods, without any company or unaccomplishable standards set for him. With an intact dream of a future in which a certain elf was being the protagonist.

Today, he had to suspect more than ever that none of this would ever become reality. After Dunharrow, that fear haunted him every waking second.

He could so clearly recall the way from Rohan to Gondor as if he'd finished walking the Paths of the Dead just minutes ago. After Aragorn had been suffering from nightmares about Arwen's death for weeks, Elrond's frightening revelation in the camp of the Rohirrim had nearly managed something that neither decades in exile nor the whole war had been able to achieve: Aragorn had been close to despair.

He had repeatedly promised, even and especially to Arwen, that he would let her go if she had wanted to leave Middle-earth with the other elves. That she had refused could hardly bring any joy in the light of the already catastrophic consequences. If Aragorn had been aware at their last meeting that more than just a few days of ride might separate them soon, he'd have found different words.

He would never forget the look on Arwen's face when the Fellowship had left Imladris. She had watched him leave with so much grief, but he'd also seen hope in her beautiful, big eyes …

It was a hope that he'd always clung to himself. The light of the Evenstar could never fade, he'd been telling himself that all his life, since the day when he had first laid eyes on Arwen. And now, he might be responsible for that happening himself.

The prospect of walking among the dead had not even seemed that scary anymore after that conversation with Elrond. Dying couldn't be more painful than this unbearable worry for the elf he loved. At the entrance of that cave, Aragorn had hesitated only for a moment, the words echoing in his ears that Arwen had whispered to him at his last stay in Imladris. He hadn't wanted to disappoint her. With this determination, he had taken the first step into the cursed realm, and with her picture on his mind, he would go into the last battle, no matter how it would end.

After a last look west, he sat down under a tree and tipped his head back against the trunk. He had to try at least and not think of anything at all for a while.

Unfortunately, the sound of a very well known voice somewhere nearby made Aragorn realize, he wasn't half as alone as he had thought. It wasn't the first time he heard Legolas' warm, vibrant singing on this journey, but he hadn't expected it here, in the silence of a deserted garden, in the middle of the night.

He hadn't seen any members of his company at all, not for longer than a few minutes, since the battle on the fields. There had been no time for wondering where they were staying before tomorrow's decision about how to proceed with this war.

Well, just like Aragorn, Legolas had been hardly sleeping for a while, especially after an extremely unpleasant encounter with two Dunlendings right after the battle of Rohan, which had almost cost him his life. The nightmares haunting him ever since then … That was probably the only thing his rapid healing, administered by an elf who'd only stopped in the Hornburg for these few hours back then, couldn't have freed him from.

At least the physical damage, this extremely gifted healer had undone, in wondrous ways that Aragorn had only seen Lord Elrond and his sons use before. By now, the arrow wound only ailed Legolas after excessively using his bow, and there were hardly any traces left on his back either. Memory though, couldn't vanish that easily. It was without a doubt only thanks to a thick mental wall around those memories, that he could still provide the Fellowship and the Free Folks with his unreserved support, without continuously collapsing under the anger, the shame, the humiliation. This wall, as well, had been built by that healer, of whom Aragorn had actually quite a good idea who she was.

And that protection, he was very grateful for. Right now, Aragorn couldn't help Legolas with this, not more than with regular checks on the ever-paling scars. They couldn't afford any kind of weakness right now, none of them. Once all of this would be over, if they would all make it out of the battles alive after all … Then he would gladly support Legolas in dealing with what these dishonorable men had done to him.

If the elf even wanted him to. So far, Legolas had adamantly blocked every smallest advance to begin such a conversation. When it came to that, they were very much alike: Legolas, too, rather devoted himself to helping others than worrying about his own wellbeing.

Hence it wasn't much of a surprise that he had been drawn here to comfort the wounded. Even if it was only with the gentle voice of an elf and a little bit of Sindarin, the melodious sound always having a healing effect on shattered souls.

After a moment of hesitation, Aragorn got up and turned to leave. For him, Sindarin, as a living memory of his young days with the elves, was everything but encouraging right now.

But then he caught a few specific words, automatically translating them in his head. He had heard this language for far too long, had been fluent in it for too many years, to just shed that manner. He stopped abruptly when he understood the meaning of that song and fresh pain stabbed his heart like a heated sword blade.

_for the night’s beauty is cruel_

_and the moon’s face is pale_

_she’d cry down upon her child_

_shadow fading_

_light whitening_

_till the sea caresses her home_

_for what is it but love that lets her go?_

_for what is it but life_

_to breathe in undying lands?_

_bound and promised_

_held and hated_

_uncountable seasons turned, seen and kept_

_yet dusk and dawn too long each_

_when once been laid to rest_

_shadow fading_

_light whitening_

_till the sea caresses her home_

Aragorn didn't even need to listen closely to make out where the voice was coming from. He knew Legolas well enough to have an idea, which spot in such a garden his friend would seek out.

Sure enough, the elf was sitting under a tree with a top so leafless, the moonlight was falling through it. And indeed, there was a fountain close by here as well. Since the beginning of the war, on more than one occasion, Legolas had talked about his path leading him to Valinor at some point in the distant future. Like so many elves before him had chosen to do so. And that in spite of his father and him, as royal representatives of the Woodland Real, always having been among the loudest advocates for the preservation of elven realms on Middle-earth. Well, if Aragorn wasn't mistaken, there was a very specific reason for his friend to suddenly follow the call of the Valar after all, namely in the shape of a certain she-elf.

In the last few days, the situation had heated up even further. Legolas' sea-longing had been awoken when Aragorn, Gimli and he had taken the sea route to Gondor, as part of that pirate fleet. From now on, every sound of water would mean pain in his heart for him. Just like for Aragorn.

With a weak grin, Aragorn sat down next to his companion. "With you howling at the moon like that, one could think you to be a warg. _Your_ voice is a very welcome sound in every situation though." Although Legolas' song mirrored his own pain, in some way it made it bearable. The sorrowful lines helped, allowing his own conflict instead of just drowning in it as usual.

He thought, Legolas startling had only been a product of his imagination, but the elf really did look surprised. Thanks to his keen senses, usually almost nothing could blindside him. "You're moving too quietly, mellon. You're probably the only one who could attack me from behind and even land more than one blow."

Though coldness actually rarely affected a Firstborn, Legolas wrapped his cloak tightly around his body and turned up his collar. It could have been mistaken for a casual gesture if Aragorn hadn't long spotted the piece of jewelry on Legolas' neck, surrounded by pale reddish light. It usually seemed to be covered by Legolas' gold blond hair, which spilled over his tense shoulders unusually sloppily tonight. If you knew how to read the signs, you could recognize an elf caught up in grief immediately.

And the endless horrors of wars were not the only reason for this condition; by now, Aragorn was sure about that, even though Legolas had always refused to talk to him about it. Even after Aragorn had witnessed some things in Helm's Deep with his own two eyes. Not even that night had he gotten any answers.

Suddenly he was sick of this silence about the obvious. Maybe he could help at least one of his friends to not go into the next inevitable, quickly approaching battle with such a heavy heart. Especially since he felt so close to the abyss himself right now, that would definitely lift his spirits.

"Tell me, mellon, did I ever betray your trust? I've got a pretty good idea why this love of yours needs to be hidden from your people at this point. But having a sleeping spell cast over me makes me doubt if you know _me_ as well as I thought. Better than anyone, you know the troubles that my feelings for Arwen bring. What is it that you fear happening if I learn about this elf maiden? Tarisilya, that's her name, isn't it? Someone I know, no less! Did you think I would tell anyone? If you had confided in me after hesitating for a while, it would be different. But feeling like an annoying stranger for accidentally witnessing something, when there's nothing wrong with it to begin with, that hurts. Frodo had reason to doubt me at Amon Hen, for the blood in my veins alone. But how did I fail _you_?"

Finally, he dared to turn his head to Legolas, uncertain if he could bear the expression on his friend's face. Maybe addressing this today of all times had not been such a good idea after all. Every now and then, Legolas and him had the same short temper. In what was maybe the only break between two such crucial battles, they better not start another fight …

"You're seeing ghosts, mellon." No, Legolas was not willing to have that conversation at this point.

When the silence became too crushing, as Aragorn just kept on staring at him invitingly with his eyebrows arched, he rather created some distance between them, pulling himself up the tree, the limb not even shaking under his small weight.

"My fate is bound to Middle-earth. There is no room for anything else in my life, regardless of anything from the past, or from a future that probably none of us will have anyway. There's nothing worth talking about." But at least for this thing in Helm's Deep, Legolas owed Aragorn an explanation. He had hoped, their discussion after Tarisilya's disappearance had settled this subject. Unfortunately, it still seemed to occupy Aragorn's mind.

Coming here had been a mistake. He had gotten carried away. Ever since that farewell, after which Tarisilya had disappeared for a long time – if not forever – from his life, there hadn't been a minute for him to remember. Maybe it was better that way. Legolas should have tried to get some sleep instead of succumbing to thoughts that had no place in war.

Tarisilya wouldn't want him grieving in a way that created even more danger than anything from Mordor that might soon come his way. Their separation made her sick enough; he didn't need to see his ring glowing to know that. Instead of regretting, he should rather hope that she would arrive at her destination as quickly as possible, to be with her father, in safety and peace, so her condition could finally improve.

He knew all that, and still he was sitting here now, probably keeping a secret for the last time, that would have caused even more unrest in the elven realms. "It's unlikely I'll ever meet an acquaintance of Lórien again who was sent to support you when your healing abilities didn't suffice. Should I though, I will of course deliver your complaint. If by mourning the elves' fates in Middle-earth I fueled your pain, I do apologize. Since you're not talking about it, you might not know, but the threat of the Evenstar burning out is not a secret for my people. No matter Arwen's destiny, a part of every elf's heart will soon be lost. I can hardly process this loss myself. I cannot fathom what even imagining losing her is doing to you. It is in any case a very healthy warning, should I ever have planned to seek a bond that means nothing but obstacles."

"Pardon me?" Aragorn took a deep breath, audibly trying not to get too loud. "Did you seriously just equal a partner's death with a relationship that forces no one to sacrifice the gift of the Firstborn? Only to deflect once more? You and Tarisilya, you're the same, no matter what anyone might have told you about differences between elves. Following such views means forgetting the history of your own folk, mellon. Nothing but time is separating the two of you."

Getting up himself, he approached the wall over which they could look east, as if wanting to visualize in detail what was endangering Arwen so much. "The daughter of Elrond wasn't only burdened with a little wait for her happiness. She is barred from eternity. Her body has become mortal, Legolas, do you even realize what that means? Ada didn't even need to say much. We have no idea if she can survive this. And all of that, for what? Only for my sake, she's ignoring that this world is probably dying. Her family, her people and Valinor ... She gave it all up, and one way or another, she'll pay for that, if a miracle doesn't happen soon."

Falling silent, Aragorn stood completely still for many seconds, as if not even the icy wind tugging on his clothes and blowing through his hair touched his senses. "I wish she would have chosen more wisely, Legolas, _that's_ why I'm not talking about it. No matter how this war ends, I will be responsible for her death. If not now, then in a few decades when my own time ends. Burdening you and the others with that and wallowing in self-pity while our world is doomed to fall, won't change anything." He turned away abruptly. "Think about that, and if maybe _you_ made the right choice before trying to assist others."

He tilted his head from one side to the other, his shoulders tense. In spite of Aragorn denying himself any kind of recreation recently, there was surprisingly no unpleasant cracking sound. At least, Aragorn seemed more awake now, more determined than a few minutes ago.

Maybe Legolas should follow his friend's example and try to find some distraction instead of pondering things that couldn't be changed anymore. No matter how right or wrong some choices he'd made might have been. "I will. Thank you."

"That's all I want. In case someone is looking for me, I'll be in the kitchen. A meal has been waiting there for me for far too long." Passing him by, Aragorn gave the tree a good hard slap. "If you're not coming down there anytime soon, by the way, I will force you to build a talan up there, or I'll shake you down personally."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * mellon = friend


	3. Chapter 3

"Steward, a few minutes of your time please?"

Faramir awoke abruptly from a restless sleep that must have got the better of him at some point. Sitting on a terrace of the Houses of Healings for hours, doing nothing but staring at the sight of Mordor in the distance, seemed to have been too much for his battered body. A barely suppressed moan came from his lips when pain from the uncomfortable position flashed through his not-quite-healed torso. Bitterness immediately tried to fill him again, when he realized once more how lousy his condition really was, along with the ongoing anger about not being part of this last, so very important battle, just because he had failed in Osgiliath.

By now, it felt ridiculous to himself that in the only brief conversation he had ever had with Aragorn so far, he had tried to insist on coming. In the end, they had actually discussed this longer than the actual request of the future ruler, which had been ensuring that Faramir did really agree with the change in leadership presumably to be expected, which had never been a question anyway.

Pushing himself upright with clenched teeth to answer the call of a voice that his disorientation didn't quite allow him to place yet, he noticed in surprise that someone had covered him with a thick blanket while he had rested, so gently that he had not even woken up.

Éowyn, probably. She was worried about him. She hadn't wanted to disturb him since he had needed the rest.

Instinctively, Faramir started to smile, a welcome change to the expression of grief and worry that the last days had left. Amidst all this chaos, the young Rohiril was a flicker of hope. _Éowyn_ … Everything about her was lovely, starting with her name. And her face … He could spend eternities, just looking at her. Which was exactly what he would do, if the two of them were to live through all of this. He wanted to get to know her better, to spend as much time as possible with her. And someday, maybe, if she wanted to … It was a light, a new purpose waiting for him in these dark days.

For now though, it was necessary to deal with whatever one of his father's former advisors wanted from him. Shaking off the last daze, Faramir turned to the man. "What is it, Verilas?"

"Forgive me for disturbing you, please. You did say, you wanted to be kept informed." Obviously feeling guilty for waking Faramir up, Verilas hurried to recite the latest developments in the city. The occasional looting, people fleeing for the countryside in droves, firefighting after the battle. And above all, countless questions of the citizens that no one could answer right now.

Faramir wasn't used to suddenly being the person in charge of dealing with such things yet. Since his father was no longer around, this responsibility, unfortunately, was on his shoulders for now. Since no one knew what was to come next anymore; since Aragorn's forces in the distance and two hobbits in Mordor had become their last hope.

Nevertheless, he listened patiently and then gave new orders to the best of his belief, though he doubted, even half of them could be followed since all available men had rode to the Black Gate. After regarding Verilas with a few words of polite gratitude, he was fully prepared to return to his dull observation of the sky in the east when he realized, his visitor had something else on his mind. "Please, do continue."

"I'm sure it's not important." The haggard, grey-haired man shrugged slowly but couldn't quite hide certain unrest. "One of the elder citizens saw something out of the ordinary at the main gate. He said there was … a she-elf on a black Mearh-mare. The horse must have brought her here. Apparently, she didn't look like she would have found the way herself. She didn't seem to be hurt, but she looked like she hadn't eaten or slept in a while. After asking where the troops went, she left for North Ithilien before she could be offered help. The old man talks like he's seen a ghost. He thinks this must be a bad omen."

"Strange indeed." And for Faramir who had always been very interested in elves, an information not half as unimportant as it might seem. Verilas knew him better than he gave the man credit for. "It rouses mostly my curiosity though, as was your intent, no doubt. No ground for action." With a quick smile, he dismissed the man.

Pondering about the things he'd heard, Faramir turned serious soon enough. A vague fear took hold of him, the same, Verilas had radiated.

Under his father's rule, people hadn't exactly been encouraged to maintain friendships with Firstborn. From early age on, Faramir had been one of the few people devouring all books and stories about elves available in this country. He'd been thinking about the realms in the west mostly with melancholy for a while now, for it was no secret that the elves were leaving this world. Now, in the most dangerous days of this war, one of that folk of all people should be traveling Gondor? On a horse long part only of ghost stories about Ringwraiths? One could almost think, the old man had dreamed the whole thing.

Since the plan of getting some more rest was failing anyway, Faramir picked himself up for a short walk in the garden. Sitting around for too long brought up way too much nonsense in one's mind. Bad omen, by the stars … His father – as well as his brother, a thought that still pierced his heart like a red-hot poker every single time – would have laughed, full-throated, at such considerations and sent him to the washerwomen in the courtyard where such things belonged.

So what? Faramir felt well-known anger returning that even after his family's death, he couldn't quite get rid of. Let it sound like nonsense then. It wasn't like his imagination was hurting anyone. He hadn't sent anyone to get the elf back, though admittedly, it had occurred to him for a moment. No one had time for such things right now.

His mind though, was not restricted by any rules or restraints. He didn't need anyone censoring his beliefs. Maybe this encounter at the gate was an omen indeed. Whatever it was that had brought this being to Gondor, Faramir would probably never know. It was none of his business anyway, as much as the story rattled him, as much as he had to wonder if maybe he'd been sent a messenger of death, an early incarnation of this last battle's losses.

Or maybe he was doing that she-elf injustice. In some legends they said, meeting a Firstborn always predicted a good future. And that it would shine a bright light on your life if it was a she-elf. Stupid superstitions, sure. No more useful than staring into the grey sky and hoping for the clouds to pass.

Well, the Valar knew that Gondor could use every bit of luck right now.

"Did you leave something in the city, elf?" On their way to what was maybe the last fight of their lives, even Gimli's humor failed to ease the situation at some point.

Unable to manage more than a weak smile, Legolas quickly focused on the road again before his loyal companion could seriously start to wonder why he kept on looking back. It had been difficult enough to deal with Aragorn's reproaches in that garden the other night. Another dispute was the last thing any of them needed right now.

 _Still_. _Something_ had happened that shouldn't have happened. Even more suffering, even more fear … Where was this sudden ice-cold feeling in him coming from whenever he turned around although the scariest things were rather lying ahead? Something bad was happening there, something he couldn't quite grasp. Something maybe concerning only him … But _what_? None of the people close to him were anywhere near Gondor; this fight was only his …

_Seeing means accepting, Thranduilion, so don't close your eyes from what you cannot change._

Only now, long after leaving Lórien behind, Legolas understood Lady Galadriel's words back then. Only a single sentence, whispered in sadness that night when Tarisilya and he had met on a clearing near Caras Galadhon. In secret like they'd done so often, so no one would notice.

Only someone _had_ noticed.

The coldness grew worse, large shivers creeping over his arms, his heart suddenly pounding. Just as quickly as he'd realized what could only be causing this fear in him and what wouldn't become any less true if he fought the knowledge … Just as quickly he suddenly understood that the two of them had _not_ been alone back then. How could he have forgotten that? There had been a shadow behind a tree, just for a moment … Tarisilya had drawn his attention back to her before he could have taken a closer look, and then the shadow had been gone.

Shocked by Tarisilya suddenly withdrawing from him more than ever, both physically and mentally, after he had hurt her once again, Legolas had suppressed the short worry that someone could have watched them. It might as well have been Lady Galadriel who had headed him off on his way back to the shelter of the Fellowship then. His sharp eyesight should have told him better. It hadn't been a female silhouette. Legolas just hadn't been able to acknowledge it, for the consequences would have been too serious.

And he still was looking away now, like a frightened elfling, as if that would change anything.

That finally had to stop. The danger that he was sensing today wasn't being a threat to _him_.

Tarisilya still was suffering, just like she had a few weeks ago. _That_ was why Legolas' betrothal ring, Lady Galadriel's ring, kept on glowing, kept on showing him the pain, his beloved was in. And here he had been hoping so much that she would feel better once she left the darkness in Middle-earth behind … Had she maybe not left these realms after all? What if something had happened to her on the way?

Legolas' hands tightened around Arod's reins. Rationality defeated the short wish to ride back before it could even really form. He did neither know if his instinct was right nor where Tarisilya was. Probably she was still on some ship with her brother. Or she had long reached the Undying Lands and just needed time to recover.

But the temptation had almost bloomed, he couldn't deny that. A kind of weakness was obviously existing inside of him that might decide over nothing less than life and death. Feeling like leaving alone thousands of allies because of a single elf for even a second ... No longer being able to properly take care of himself in a fight, being distracted enough by his worries about his beloved to possibly fall to an enemy's sword ... Where was the balance for so much danger? What could make so much pain and turmoil right?

The faint throb of a very recent scar on Legolas' right shoulder answered the torturing question, ending a long moment of completely shutting out all surroundings.

Sadly, this wasn't the first time, Tarisilya was in danger because of him. That detour to Helm's Deep back then could have killed her. After all, it had led her through the worst of war zones. But it had been her own decision to help him then. As it had always been her decision to leave Middle-earth; Legolas had only encouraged her. To the Hornburg, she had partly come to make sure that the Fellowship wouldn't lose his support. She wouldn't want him to give up now.

If the only one hope left in him was another loving gaze from his betrothed, and feeling the comforting touch of her hand again, that was enough to approach Mordor with the determination to live through this battle. To come back and make sure, Tarisilya was alright. Right now, he couldn't help her anyway, he was being too far from her for that.

If she was indeed doing so much worse than at their last meeting, her brother would hopefully take her to Imladris. In the halls of healing there, she would be welcomed with all kindness. As long as that glow of Legolas' ring and – even more important – the warm light of Tarisilya's pure mind in his soul remained, she was alive and fighting. And waiting for him.

He just had to keep on doing everything to save the world making them both sick, and follow Tarisilya into the west then. If he really was to fall in this battle, he'd do it with her name on his lips. He had promised her that in Helm's Deep.

But before arriving at the Black Gate, at least something else had to be made right. Legolas waited until Gimli was distracted by some conversation with Éomer and then steered Arod to join Brego's side. This was only between his best friend among Men and himself, at least for now. If the Free Folks of Middle-earth would win after all, there wouldn't be reason for certain secrecy anymore. For now, there was only one man who would understand Legolas' fear for a beloved almost getting the better of him for a moment. "You were right about Ilya, Aragorn. Forgive my hesitation, please. There is no one who deserves my trust more than you."

"If you only say that because you think we will not survive the next few days, you will have to watch your back. Or I might personally strike you down with my sword." For long seconds, Aragorn kept on staring ahead, his expression unmoving. Only then he turned to look at Legolas, with that broad grin he so rarely showed and that was coming from the heart all the more. "Le abdollen, mellon."

Feeling Gimli's curious gaze in his back, Legolas didn't make another comment but did his best, fighting down his gloom long enough to return the smile. Then he went silent again.


	4. Chapter 4

The battle at the gates of Mordor had broken loose quickly.

Just a few minutes ago, Arwen had finally caught up with the troops of the future King, her beloved. She hadn't made it to push her way through to Aragorn to reveal herself before the dark creatures of Sauron had been everywhere. It was just like she had told Glorfindel: On this day, the fate of all beings of Middle-earth would be decided. She herself wouldn't be an exception. She belonged right here, with the man she loved and with the Free Folks, in this terrible hour.

Not regretting her decision didn't make going through with it easier though. It wasn't long before Arwen was forced to dismount, and part of her was glad; glad that she could at least send Asfaloth away and know him to be safe, far from the fighting. The loyal Mearh stallion at least shouldn't suffer from her decision, which felt more like madness with every passing second.

On the ground now, Arwen tried to fight the thousands of attackers with all she had ever learned, but her achievements were few. So soon after recovering from her sickness, she simply was missing sufficient physical strength. While she was dodging countless blows, with the practice of centuries, and struck out as soon as she made out an enemy from the corner of her eyes, the numbers of orcs around her never lessened.

It didn't matter. She had to continue.

Every rational thought inside her mind felt frozen. Her body was functioning on its own, keeping her going, though Arwen could feel the strain of the journey more and more and soon failed to stand straight. She had not only underestimated how many enemies she would be facing, but how much the additional effort of the mad ride would damage her sickness-withered body further as well. And now it was too late to turn back. Despair tried to choke her. She was bleeding from several wounds, but even that, she did only realize when sweat and blood blurred her sight, burning in her eyes. She would meet her end before she could at least look into Aragorn's eyes one last time. Or apologize.

By now, she hardly felt it when someone or something slammed into her armor, or that due to the bad fitting, the chestplate had slipped upwards a few inches. She just brought her sword down again and again, and tried not to lose her rhythm. She would die in this horrible place, right here at the gates of the Dark Lord, she wasn't doubting that anymore. Now it was only about how long she could delay that.

With an angry, loud scream, she raised her blade, blocking the strike of another orc, and quickly turned around, cutting the creature's throat open as she did. Dark blood splattered towards her, staining her face. Even more nausea twisted her stomach, but she just wiped the sticky fluid off so she could see again, and beat off the next attack at the last second.

The splintering, cracking noise of bones breaking right next to her had Arwen startle. With growing terror, she watched a cave troll repeatedly strike one of the soldiers with a bludgeon. She hoped for the poor man to be dead already, but she had to doubt it.

The troll didn't seem to be horribly troubled by such considerations; he already turned away from his victim. His deeply sunken eyes moved about, seeking for a new target. The result of that search had Arwen running off blindly – certain creatures of darkness couldn't be fooled by a hood.

Leaping over lifeless shapes of fallen men and orcs alike, edging her way through the crowd, Arwen hectically looked for a place to hide or a more favorable spot to defend herself. But the troll just cut a path for his massive body with his weapon, using it like a bush knife, and came ever closer. Arwen sprinted even faster, though she was out of breath more and more, but then had to stop abruptly.

An orc was blocking her way. Understanding the situation immediately, he grinned in delight. When Arwen pulled back her hood to see both enemies better, and the creature noticed, it was facing a Firstborn of all people, it chuckled gleefully. "This is the end for you, she-elf!"

Answering the scorn with a brief attack, Arwen internally already prepared for the strike that the troll would deliver from behind any second now. But it never came.

A bright twinkle nearby distracted all of them for a moment. The sun that so seldom broke through the clouds in this place of death, was reflected in a polished armor when its bearer stormed forward valiantly to see about that troll.

From the corner of her eyes, Arwen thought to spot the White Tree of Gondor on the dark blue leather covering the chestplate. Seeing the man's dark long hair, an infallible suspicion arose in her mind. But she didn't get a chance to go sure, or to maybe try and help her savior, hoping they could defeat the powerful creature together.

A hard shove to her back had her turn her head, alarmed. A whole group of enemies had forced one of the soldiers to fall back, and in his blind panic, he had collided with her. Arwen couldn't regain her balance in time and stumbled, right into the dagger of the orc who celebrated the easy victory with a triumphing roar. At least, until the blade of a soldier running buy cut his head off.

The blade tumbled to the ground along with the creature, slipping from Arwen's lower belly. She fell to her knees with a choked cry. The world drowned in dark mist quicker than she could try to look for help or to take care of the wound herself.

The last thing she saw was the flash of that soldier's armor again, and the White Tree on it that felt like a lifeline, something she could cling to for a few seconds, to keep her consciousness afloat in this vortex trying to swallow her whole. Long enough to watch the warrior courageously fighting the troll. She couldn't see his face clearly, but it wasn't necessary. She knew. At least she had been granted to be so close to him one last time. A weak smile curled on her lips before her body violently spasmed from the growing pain and she finally blacked out.

While the surviving warriors of Rohan and Gondor were rejoicing after the destruction of the One Ring at Mount Doom, for Aragorn and his companions there was hardly a moment of relief, of triumph.

Mithrandir was the first to take his leave. Traveling on Gwaihir's back, two more of the Great Eagles in tow, he chased the tiny hope that they could save Frodo and Sam from certain death in the lava of a volcano that was breathing the last of his wretched soul out.

Legolas on the other hand was quickly back by Aragorn's side, once the worst of explosions and tremors had subsided, obviously determined to not leave him out of sight anytime soon. The shock of watching a cave troll nearly squash Aragorn from up close still seemed to haunt him.

Aragorn was grateful for the continuous assistance of one of his strongest fighters. He had only just started to hurry across the battlefield, along with Éomer and the few soldiers who had made it out of the fight unharmed, to register the losses and find help for the badly wounded. An almost hopeless feeling endeavor. Far too few men were in the condition to give much care to others, and there were hardly any means to treat the hurt ones. There had hardly been room for such ballast when they had left for Mordor – after all, none of them had seriously expected to come back alive. Now they had to act as quickly and efficiently as possible.

"We have to get these people to the base camp at Cair Andros," Aragorn explained, as composed as possible in view of the many dead soldiers, and of those for whom every help would come too late. "Someone has to ride ahead to make sure that as many healers and riders with supplies as possible will meet us on the way." It proved most difficult to not just kneel over the next best victim and start a treatment. Over which of them? Which of these courageous people deserved most to be cared for? They would lose many more soldiers today. That knowledge, that guilt hurt much more than his own marginal injures, mostly in his face, which primarily slowed his movements. He had seldom felt so exhausted in body and mind.

"I have to get back anyway." That Legolas spoke up immediately wasn't a surprise. His next quest had to be the search for Tarisilya if Aragorn interpreted their short conversation on the way to Mordor right. In the absence of clues, that ride would probably take him to Minas Tirith first. Visiting the camp at Cair Andros wouldn't be a detour. But the elf still seemed unwilling to leave Aragorn alone, though Gimli would be staying for now, just like the hobbits, to help out with whatever a dwarf's strong hands could be of use for.

"What about you? Will you stay here?"

Aragorn hesitated, his eyes once more on the battlefield. In the faces of the soldiers who were trying to help their friends or grieving the fallen fighters, he could see that they waiting for comforting words from him. Against better judgement they probably hoped, their leader would work miracles somehow, undo the countless catastrophes of this whole conflict.

Unfortunately, Aragorn knew better. This had not been his first war. He had already been standing on a field like these soldiers did, at the end of his strength and with his belief in his commander unbroken. But as much as they had tried, they hadn't been able to do anything but giving sober orders, unblinking. Getting infected by the despair all around him now and allowing the grief to make him forget his duties, would cost them even more lives. Aragorn had already painfully had to remember that lecture after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

With a deep sigh, he turned to Legolas. "I'm coming with you. The camp has to be organized and the healers need to be instructed. I can estimate best what needs to be taken here and how to organize the transportation of the injured. The healers and the soldiers will do everything they can, but none of them have ever been on a battlefield this huge."

"Lord Aragorn?" One of the soldiers approached him, sounding uncertain, unwilling to understand what he had just heard.

"Call the leaders of all units. Have them find out the causalities among their people and stabilize the wounded as well as they can. Every minute counts. We shouldn't waste time with talk and doubt. Every step has to be carefully planned if as many as possible shall be able to attend the victory celebrations later."

Impatiently looking for Brego already, Aragorn paused for a moment when he noticed a tall white horse from the corner of his eyes that he thought to recognize from his old home. That was nonsense of course, there was no reason for that animal to be here. And this one wasn't bridled with the precious white threads typical for Imladris, including the eccentric bells attached, but with worn leather. But for a second …

Aragorn shuddered softly, calling himself to order. His longing for his home and his worry for the one elf there who was so important to him apparently played tricks on him. There really was no time for that now.

Near to said stallion and Arod's smaller, bright silhouette, he spotted the auburn one of his own mount, fortunately, and loudly whistled it over. With his head lowered, as if he was mourning as well, Brego trotted towards him.

"I'll expect a report and the first men's arrival in North Ithilien as soon as possible. Everyone not hindered by injury will participate in helping their comrades and support them on their way. No one is to be left behind or neglected." Aragorn pulled himself up the saddle, glad that he could sit for a while now. His own wounds kept on robbing him of his energy. The weight of his armor was unbearably heavy on his back by now. He only waited until the soldier who was at least not looking as dumbfounded anymore, nodded and took a quick bow in his direction, then he turned Brego west.

"This will be a ride without rests. I hope you can still do that," he mentioned to Legolas, grinning weakly.

"As long as I don't have to pick you up from the ground every few minutes when you fall asleep …" Even their jesting sounded lukewarm, distracted right now. Waiting on Arod's back already, Legolas was staring restlessly in the distance.

Aragorn decided to keep the little jab about there being no elf armed with a sleeping spell standing behind him this time to himself. He rather signaled Brego that it was time to leave, with tight pressure of his lower legs to the stallion's sides. Now that the inconceivable, the still completely surreal miracle had actually happened, best friends shouldn't wear themselves out on trifles anymore. There was way too much to do for that. The war was over, but for many who had stood their ground in it, it would only be decided in Ithilien how it would end. They could just hope that the Valar would keep on giving them all strength.

In spite of the brutal speed that Aragorn commanded, shortly after their departure, Legolas suddenly let go of Arod's reins and took one of his daggers from his back, the blade coming way too close to his neck for Aragorn's taste.

"Save your tricks for someone who hasn't learned as a child already what an elf can do." Aragorn's humor was mostly an attempt to distract himself right now. Though he knew that after all the hardship of the last months, Brego actually couldn't pick up any more speed, he still pushed him even further.

When Legolas pulled his hand away, there was a little trail of blood on it, but given his stable seat even during such a wild gallop, Aragorn had to wonder if that was intentional. The strand of hair the elf had cut off wasn't as long the rest; part of it was braided around that ring that Aragorn had noticed more than once in the last few days. The red glow seemed to intensify with every foot they covered, easily visible even through the cover of the thick hair. When Legolas put the ring on and the strand started to wave like a flag, the light encased his arm as if it wanted to drive its meaning home.

"Something about Lady Galadriel's gifts always diminishes their beauty." Legolas absently stroked Arod's mane. "No matter if it's a bow that ends countless lives or magic that allows you to see a beloved person – at least when they're in danger."

"Then I hope, the noble Lady only forgot to mention that this thing can show positive things as well, mellon."

But Aragorn was afraid, that illusion would soon fail.

The last battles of this war were only just beginning.


	5. Chapter 5

"What is it now?" Aragorn couldn't quite hide his impatience and especially his annoyance about being kept from his duties _again_. The meeting after their arrival at the base camp had taken longer than hoped. His orders should have been clear enough. He finally wanted to get to work on what required his efforts most right now.

Fortunately, Mithrandir had already set many of the necessary organizational matters in Minas Tirith in motion. While Prince Imrahil and Faramir would perform temporary government activities in Gondor, as faithfully as they could, it was up to the warlords to save as many of the survivors as possible. And make the area around Mordor safe, so the White City would be protected from any last scattered enemy troops.

What would happen after that, when and in which form Aragorn would go back to his normal life, was still written in the stars. For now, it was his main purpose to keep the number of casualties as low as possible. And more than anyone, the hobbits required his healing powers right now. He didn't have time for standing around here and wait for Legolas to get himself to say whatever he had to say.

In fact, he had expected his friend to say good-bye hours ago already. That the elf's heart would speak louder to him than any rationality, urging him to get on the road before he even knew which one to take.

And Aragorn got that; he himself would spend the next days in anxious anticipation of that message from Imladris about Arwen's condition that Elrond had promised him. But all this back and forth was wasting precious minutes.

Gimli, as well, stared at them quizzically from the distance.

The few Dúnedain who had joined the battle at the Black Gate and had not fallen, had already left to get their horses after their conversation with Aragorn, not only armed to their teeth but also equipped with what little healing utensils could be spared right now. Now that the immediate war conflicts were over, Aragorn would do his best to make sure, there wouldn't be even more victims among the last few enemy groups of Men. Though a long time might pass until full peace among all Free Folks would be possible … Especially those who had fallen for Sauron's and Saruman's words – often partly because of mistakes in the long-gone past that had not even been their own –, needed to be approached now, at least in the form of a truce. With his own people, Aragorn could be sure that an understandable desire for vengeance that he certainly didn't believe himself to be completely immune to, wouldn't get in the way.

And the dwarf was visibly impatient to join the Dúnedain. If he didn't hurry, they might leave the camp without him and Legolas. Since Gimli couldn't be of much help with the healing, it had seemed like a good idea to all of them that he would keep an eye on the surroundings with the Dúnedain. And of course, he had hoped for his elf friend to come with him.

But Legolas was visibly reluctant to go through with that plan. "A few minutes. Get Arod ready," he instructed Gimli pleadingly before turning back to Aragorn, with his arms crossed.

"I want to keep staying by your side, but I cannot say how long I will be able to. To be honest, I don't even know if I should still be here."

"You've already made that clear on the way. What kind of answer do you expect from me? Your arrows would be invaluable for fighting the last enemies, you know that best." Tiredly rubbing his eyes, Aragorn once again examined the numerous simple, grey tents between the densely growing trees. In one of them, Sam and Frodo waited for someone to ease their pain. He wanted to see to those as quickly as possible who had changed the fate of Middle-earth for the better. They shouldn't pay for their courage and their strength with their lives after all, after Gandalf and the eagles had indeed been able to save them from the ruins of Mordor, against all odds.

Still, he could comprehend what was moving Legolas so much. "I share your fear too much to ask you to stay. It's your decision alone."

"As long as it is unclear where Ilya is, I can't focus on any duties. I've tried all afternoon, in vain." Legolas slipped his hand under his cloak to hide the reddish glow there under the coarse fabric, but of course, they both knew it was there. "She should long be on her way into the west, and yet the ring tells me that her condition is growing worse. Maybe something happened to her. I've sent out pigeons to all elven realms, but who knows if that will be enough? If the answers will arrive in time? I should personally go sure. I just wish I knew where to start."

"If you think she's still on Middle-earth, she's probably somewhere in these lands because she wants to get to you. Then she will arrive here sooner or later." Aragorn tried it with the at least most apt-sounding argument. But he was fair enough to not ignore the other, much worse possibility. "Or maybe, something really did happen to her and she hasn't made it to Mithlond. Follow your feelings, Legolas. This is nothing I can help you with. My place is here, with the people who would have sacrificed their lives without hesitation to save my world. As much as I want to raise you up, I've run out of words to cheer people up for the day. And what little hope I have left, I will need for our Companions. We need you, but no one will resent you for leaving, least of all me."

A resigned, reluctant nod was the only response before Legolas left him standing there to follow Gimli. His posture looked nearly as hunched and exhausted as Aragorn's. After their victory, things weren't back in order for the Fellowship as quickly as for others.

It had grown quiet.

Not much had consciously reached Tarisilya's senses since she'd left Minas Tirith behind, heading east. The rush of the river had stopped, at least that much cut through her exhaustion and the darkness in her mind. How much time had passed since speaking to this man by the city wall? She couldn't tell. She was mostly busy trying to stay in the saddle without recklessly stumbling into some open conflict. That would have been a damn stupid idea. Basically, she knew nothing about fighting, and she had never allowed herself to change that. Other elves had denied her training as well, unwilling to risk her talents getting lost to the world of Firstborn. Now, ironically, it might be her whole life being forfeit instead.

She didn't have much strength left to stay on her horse. Whenever she ran out and had to dismount, it was Manyala who woke her up again at some point. Patiently, the mare waited for her then each time, laying on the floor until Tarisilya was finally sitting somewhat safely on her back again.

How many of those changes between effort and rest there had been by now, she didn't know. The last must have been a while ago. At some point, somewhere near, there had been very loud noise, but Tarisilya's sight had been too blurred to make out what exactly was going on there. Manyala had been afraid, that much Tarisilya had sensed, so she had paused and waited until it hadn't been loud anymore.

Now every noise had all but stopped for good. Tarisilya thought to hear some muffled voices close by but that could just as well be the call of some animal.

Manyala had uttered a loud neigh a few times, too. Then it had almost sounded as if somewhere in the distance, someone was answering the shrill shout, another of the Mearas.

But who was supposed to live out here? There was nothing here, not even water. Which was probably better. After Tarisilya had decided to let her twin brother leave for Valinor alone and ride back to Legolas, there was a badly burning pain inside of her whenever she caught sight of the river. The pain that every elf felt who had ever heard the call of the sea. For Tarisilya, it was especially unbearable since she not only knew her father but now Tegiend, as well, to be far away from her.

Only by not hearing the gurgling of the stream anymore she realized that it had been her constant companion as of late. A change of course? Why? She had long stopped steering Manyala consciously by either reins, hips or legs – how could she? She didn't even have an idea where exactly she needed to go. Her mare must have chosen a path by herself, one where the fresh smell of green and trees was infusing the air, which helped Tarisilya breathe freely for the first time in a long while.

Night had fallen again; in her daze, she couldn't tell where she could possibly be right now. Every time she looked up, she could make out even less. Too late, Tarisilya realized that her tiredness was overwhelming her once more, that she had to get down from her horse and find shelter before she would run out of energy to do so. She weakly reached for the reins to signal Manyala to stop by a short pull. Her hand missed its target by a large stretch and slipped away. Before she even really realized what was happening, she lost balance.

Manyala bolted, frightened, and jumped aside when her rider suddenly slipped from the saddle. The tender touch of her nose that kept on nudging her side was the last thing that Tarisilya could feel.

Aragorn still couldn't quite grasp that the battle of the Black Gate had ended hours ago only. With every look around at the camp of Cair Andros, he spotted so many badly wounded people that it felt like he'd only just drawn his sword for the freedom of Middle-earth minutes ago.

At least the hobbits were feeling a little better. Save for Frodo's mutilated hand, the scar of the missing finger that Gollum had bitten off to recapture the One Ring, hopefully, none of them would walk away from their troublesome journey to Mordor with lasting damages.

Any relief quickly faded though when Aragorn entered the long path leading through the camp, seamed by numerous accommodations in which injured soldiers and relatives alike were waiting for good news from the healers. Until now, Aragorn had focused his strength on saving his little friends; now he wanted to see what he could achieve for the battered soldiers.

The tent to start in, he chose completely randomly. He just entered one that made him feel especially disheartened, though he couldn't exactly tell why. Everyone here deserved his help; there were no criteria about whom to see first. So he left it to chance. Slowly, he passed the beds by one by one, hesitating more than once, then looked up frowning when he saw several of the healers bent over a cot at the end of the row.

The white-clad men and women were gesturing wildly, shaking their heads in sympathy, and finally left the bed. Only a single man stayed back, an outraged grunt about his colleague's early surrender on his lips, with his hands defiantly put on his hips.

When he spotted Aragorn, he suddenly turned pale and approached him in a rush. "I just wanted to get you. They didn't want to disturb you while you were healing the halflings. But it's so important … Maybe you can do something … I thought, at the very least, you would want to know."

Confused, his attention caught, Aragorn stepped closer to the bed, to finally look at whatever poor lad the healers thought to be beyond help. Who in here could they think to have a special meaning to Aragorn, now that his closest friends were all on the road to recovery?

His legs gave out, he went to his knees in bewildered shock.

He had been right then after all. It was indeed Asfaloth whom he had seen at the Black Gate. Aragorn had just suppressed the realization, unwilling to accept it. And then he had failed the love of his life for a second time by not going sure, by not searching the paddocks that the soldiers' animals had been brought to.

All the tender hope for a future he had been dreaming about, which should have come true now that the Dark Lord was defeated … All these illusions were shattered by a single look at a face that had been unnaturally beautiful not too long ago, framed by jet black dark hair and now marked by death. The same deep blue eyes that had stared at Aragorn in challenge on a bridge on Imladris just a few months back, were narrowed to a slit from pain. A desperate battle for survival had robbed the patient's cheeks of all color.

"What is this she-elf doing here?"

Trembling in shock and anger on himself, too, he straightened up and grabbed Arwen's hand, a lot gentler than on the day when he had tried to give her back her jewel, to change her decision for him. As if she ever would let him command her in any way. In this case, she better should have, though. That jewel that had meant so much for both of them, had burst under Sauron's gaze through the palantír as if the Dark Lord had indeed foreseen Arwen's fate. Apparently, Aragorn should have taken these dark signs a lot more seriously.

Arwen had apparently been unwilling to accept that physical and mental weakness that Elrond had spoken of. She had reared up for a last time, meeting the danger with her head held high as she always did. And had promptly paid the price.

"Why don't you ever listen to me?" Aragorn murmured, numb from the ice-cold scare, but at least recovered enough to search for Arwen's pulse. He could start blaming himself later. Now he had to help his beloved, immediately, before it would indeed be too late.

"What do you mean?" The elderly healer obviously didn't quite understand Aragorn's question for him. "She was found on the battlefield, along with the other warriors. We didn't think much of it. After all, some elves did come to help the Rohirrim in Helm's Deep too, right? We thought, maybe she belonged with Lord Legolas. Unfortunately, we were not able to inform him yet either. I'm afraid that we really cannot do anything for her. An orc dagger has stabbed her midsection. We could stop the bleeding but the infections had badly damaged her body already. They are causing a high fever that comes back every time we can lower it, even severer than before. The others don't think that she will last the night."

For long moments, Aragorn could only stare at his unconscious beloved, more dispirited than he liked to admit even to himself. Then he pulled himself together and looked around in the tent. As far as he could tell, the healers were treating every patient as well as they could. They would send for him when difficulties came up that only he could deal with. Aragorn felt obliged to the soldiers just as much, but at least the most important steps for Arwen's healing, he had to induce himself. If not, then … And just when he had thought, she surely would be out of danger now …

_Why_ had she risked coming here? At a time when not only she had been doing badly already, but when she couldn't count on the enhanced healing factor and the resilience of a Firstborn body anymore? Had she not realized that she had all but courted such a defeat?

It wasn't like Aragorn didn't know her unbreakable combative nature, of course. He had told her so often that he admired how she was openly defying some traditions, just to do what was important to her, by regularly making outstanding contributions to battles. And not only in case of emergency, like many other she-elves used to. If she had possibly seen these words as an encouragement to join the very front, instead of recovering in Imladris and wait for the outcome of the war, then it would indeed be his fault if she died.

Determination finally prompted Aragorn to get up. Arwen _was_ still alive, and that she had hung in there for so long, was a good sign. He had to make sure it would stay that way. "People in these realms should know by now that I never give up a fight easily."

As carefully as possible, he reached under Arwen's fragile body and picked her up. There was too much hecticness in here disturbing his focus. He tried to remember if there was an empty tent somewhere around, but if he wasn't mistaken, every single bed in the camp seemed to be occupied right now.

Only one choice left. He sighed deeply, knowing certain rumors would inevitably emerge before anyone in these lands even suspected the importance that this elf held to him. But he couldn't let that stop him. "I need silence for this treatment. For now, speak of none of this to anyone. I'm taking her to my own tent. Prepare a den for her there and bring the necessary utensils. Send my companion Gimli there as soon as he comes back."

This time, it was Aragorn and not Legolas who had to send out an emergency message to a certain elven realm. With the dwarf helping him, he could be sure that this ill news wouldn't spread too quickly. A tent full of compassionate but little helpful people watching him was the last thing, Aragorn needed right now. And Legolas, he didn't want to burden with yet another worry while he was fearing for Tarisilya.

He felt more than one pair of eyes staring in shock at him when he hurried through the camp with the elf on his arms. He had obviously not been the only one unaware of another Firstborn besides Legolas fighting at the Black Gate, one who now struggled to survive.

Aragorn could only hope with all of his heart that his beloved would keep up the same stubbornness that had kept her alive in all those last weeks.


	6. Chapter 6

It had taken some persuasiveness until Gimli had accepted that Legolas didn't want to try and get drunk at the campfire with him and the others after their first exploratory ride; that he had to be alone for a while. He had had to promise several times that he wouldn't sneak off in secrecy, especially not without his armor. Not in an area where many dangers were still lurking. After the big mistake that Legolas had made in Helm's Deep, an understandable worry of the dwarf.

Still, he was relieved when someone took Arod off his hands to take care of the stallion and he could leave the site of healing to enter the vastness of North Ithilien's woods. When finally a bit of silence set in around him. It wasn't like he couldn't understand people's joy about this legendary victory, the wish to celebrate their extraordinary deeds. But Aragorn, as was his nature, wouldn't rest until the last patient felt better. So Legolas wasn't in much of a mood to join any group for wine and singing either.

That wasn't only it, though. While he had spoken of his desire for some privacy to the others, of the need to gather new strength ... A simple walk couldn't achieve that. His mind refused to allow silence as long he could see in the glow of his betrothal ring, and sense deep within himself, that his beloved felt just as little untainted happiness about the triumph of the Free Folks as him.

He would have to wait at least for a few days for answers from the elven realms regarding Tarisilya's whereabouts. For now, Legolas could do nothing but be afraid, with the signals of that damn ring as his only clue.

The glow was growing neither stronger nor weaker, so Tarisilya was at least not doing any worse. If she had indeed walked the path that had been chosen for her until a short while ago, she should have arrived in Valinor by now, should be reunited with her father. She had yearned for Vandrin so much; her fear of living without him and her twin brother had been so big – had she really given up on all that?

And if she had not, if she _had_ left and would recover from the journey's strains soon … How long would Legolas be able to live without her? How long would duty be able to bind him?

The decision that had formed in him in the last hours, to settle in Gondor in the near future, had been awoken spontaneously, but that didn't mean it was coming any less from the heart. On that ride with the Dúnedain, Legolas had fallen in love with this landscape. Even now as darkness was ruling his soul, he could feel the gentle touch of these woods with their many possibilities of retreat that welcomed him, murmuring their quiet song to him as if he'd always had a home here.

It was a good place. A place to process the terrors of war in a way, he couldn't have in the west. Not with people he'd come to appreciate but who would never understand how last year had changed him. Especially the hours after the battle of Helm's Deep which still blurred in his head immediately when he carefully tried to think back of that time when he'd been closer to death than on any other of these dreadful days. His subconsciousness still refused to recall the details, but someday, that protection would fall. Someday, he would have to deal with this, and with everything else that he had been confronted with on this journey.

And for that, he needed his companions close. Aragorn, Gimli, his loyal friend … Beings who had been there. He needed to leave the shadows behind. He would never be able to find peace in Valinor before that, no matter how big his longing for the sea might be.

Where was Tarisilya's place in all this though? They had made a promise to wait for each other, as they'd done for a thousand years already. But such words were easily spoken, especially in a night of despair, without hope to even live through the next week. His betrothed was suffering, that was all Legolas could tell right now.

And there was nothing he could do. Sure, he could have taken a ship to sail west himself and hope that she would be waiting for him at the beach. Just imagining that made his heart clench painfully. Turn his back on everything that was his life here? Leave his father and his people in Mirkwood alone? Never see the other members of the Fellowship again?

Tarisilya had always known that he couldn't bring himself to do that, not immediately. Of course, she hadn't been happy about it … But was she being _so_ unhappy that it was endangering her life?

Stopping at an old oak tree, Legolas absently ran his fingertips over the coarse bark. It seemed to be one of the oldest trees around here, with a broad trunk and withered twigs that still sported leaves. Nature usually always spoke to him when he felt lost, but not even this mighty queen of the woods seemed to have any words to resolve his absolute cluelessness today. No story of two lovers meeting here Ages ago or an exciting tale of lonely hunters. Everything was quiet. Even the animals of the woods seemed to be fleeing, though those actually never feared the soundless steps of an elf.

No, this was no relaxing time off, this was just another escape, like in the last weeks, from the very same decision that had tormented Tarisilya for about 20 years, and that had now become his. And he wouldn't be able to make it, strolling through the undergrowth.

With the same depression that Legolas had left the camp with, he returned. Maybe he would have a few mugs of ale with Gimli after all. That might possibly help numb his mind since even the woods could not anymore.

How lost in thought he had really been, Legolas only realized when a shrill neigh from the edge of the tent city had him startle, a voice he thought to recognize. Only a Mearh could make noises like that. His energy returning immediately, he sprinted to the paddock where the sound was coming from while vague anticipation, disbelief and worry took turns flooding his soul. The second he was within sight, he froze. And not only because he could indeed make out an animal that he recognized at first glance between the other horses, tightly huddled together on the fenced-off little meadow. No matter how Asfaloth of all horses had come here, whatever Glorfindel of all people was doing here ... The upset call had not come from this stallion.

Another horse was tied to the fence, one that many people would probably run from immediately. Not because it was violently pulling on the rope tethered to its bridle, rearing up again and again, trying to kick whoever came close, with foam at its mouth and its eyes rolling wildly. It was because this mare was black as the night itself and indeed of the same blood as Glorfindel's stallion. Of a species that could only be found in the noblest Rohirrim families and with elves of lordship. And Mearas of this color were the messengers of darkness, the former mounts of the Nazgûl. They were believed to have gone extinct, except for these few disfigured creatures disgraced by Sauron, who had met their end in the war, in the river that marked the border of Imladris. At least that was what people said.

Legolas knew better. At least two black Mearas foals had somehow escaped their destiny in Mordor and had found a home in the Golden Wood of Lórien. Lady Galadriel had never revealed to anyone how that had come to be. The horses had then been gifted to two Galadhrim. Brought up on the bottle, they had grown into loyal companions for two riders that Mearas usually didn't accept on their backs, two without any noble ancestry.

Tarisilya had introduced these proud young animals to Legolas at the beginning of this millennium in Imladris, on the day after they had started their relationship. Even back then, he had sensed the deep friendship between her and this headstrong mare. Tarisilya would never have left Manyala on Middle-earth … And Manyala would never have left her owner alone.

So either his eyes were cheated by wishful thinking or … When Legolas overcame his surprise and stepped closer, the animal paused immediately and eyed him mistrustfully, prancing aside as much as the rope allowed whereupon the moonlight shone down on its tall, lean body.

No, there was no doubt. The mare was drenched in sweat, completely exhausted and covered in many small wounds, apparently from spending a few long days in the wilderness. But it was her. The closer Legolas got, the more furious the horse bristled, as if trying to make the same reproaches that he had tortured himself with all day.

He was more certain of his cruel realization by the second: Tarisilya had indeed turned around once more. In Helm's Deep, she had already been in a bad condition. This journey must have robbed her of her last strength. She would have needed him; that was why his ring kept on glowing so ominously.

But he had not been there. He had suppressed it, had tried to tell himself that everything would be alright. If now, she was … He couldn't even finish the thought.

" _Finally_! I've been looking for you all over, elf princeling!" Sure enough, there was already Gimli's panting voice sounding behind him.

Legolas decided that tomorrow would be early enough to tell himself that he apparently was the most incapable partner for Tarisilya on this whole, wide world and spun around. "Where is she?"

"With the healers." Gimli scratched through his long beard, confused, surprised that his friend knew immediately, what this was about. "Quickly! They brought her …"

Legolas wasn’t even listening anymore, he just started to run instead. He needed only seconds to make out where he needed to go.

One of the healers just left a very small tent at the edge of the camp that apparently had been built especially for the newly arrived elf. The man stopped immediately when he saw Legolas; compassion shone from his eyes.

Legolas harshly pushed past the man, ignoring his words completely as well. Only in the entrance, he paused, so abruptly that Gimli almost ran into him. For a moment, he was too frightened even to approach the sickbed.

Tarisilya's face was marred by the sickly white color of her skin. Her arms and legs were nothing but skin and bones. Her betrothal ring had become too big for her; it was only fitting on her thumb now. She was still wearing that black traveling gown that Legolas had seen her in already, in Helm's Deep. It made her look even paler, and it was torn in a few places. Her hair was braided into two large buns that covered her ears. It was still a miracle, one she doubtlessly had to thank Manyala's fast legs and her intelligence for, that she even had made it here in this condition, considering all the dangers on the way.

With tears in his eyes, Legolas knelt down next to the cot, opposite of another healer who was watching the elf with a serious expression. After asking Gimli, in a choked voice - out of old habit already -, to leave him alone and for now not to talk to anyone about what he had seen, Legolas carefully caressed Tarisilya's neck, with the weak hope that she would be waking up, but she didn't move.

She must have been unconscious for some time already. Maybe she had hurt herself too, falling from her horse. This coldness … Not only on her skin … It was _inside_ of her. No matter how many tender words Legolas whispered into her ear, she didn't stir. It felt like she was breathing weaker with every passing second. She must have dragged herself here with the last of her strength, only to be able to see him again. And he had not been here.

Elves couldn't grow sick. It was something else that had drained Tarisilya's body so much. Legolas knew what the healer would say before the man even opened his mouth.

"I am very sorry, Lord Legolas. This maiden seems to have suffered from something for quite a while that no herbs and no bandages could have helped with. It looks like she is recovering now, but slowly. We could pour a little bit of soup down her throat earlier. But I'm afraid, her body is too weak to stabilize quickly enough. The fever keeps rising. It will be over soon. Maybe, if she'd been brought here earlier … I will do whatever I can, of course. I'll prepare a new kettle of healing tea at once. But …"

Legolas had heard enough. With a sharp gesture of his hand, he silenced the man, not ready to accept what he had just heard. The healer had to be wrong. It just couldn't be …

Tarisilya had indeed suffered greatly in the last months. But now, everything was fine, wasn't it? Sauron was defeated, the two of them could finally be together … She would recover soon …

But another glance – not one clouded by panic anymore, but one to check for himself – at the much too thin shape that one could almost fail to spot between the white bedsheets, confirmed the man's assessment. The delicate mental connection that had existed between Legolas and Tarisilya for centuries ... Once created by her talent for an ability that had become rare in the last Ages, to read in others without the need for a mental bond, and strengthened by their betrothal rings ... A connection that had always been like warmth in the darkest, loneliest night ... That connection had nearly died out.

The finding robbed him of his own strength. He barely made it to pull Tarisilya's slender body into his arms before he collapsed. He didn't even really realize that the healer discreetly left him alone.

This was exactly how Tarisilya had sat by his side in Helm's Deep, to make him feel that she wouldn't let go of him. Back then, she had been able to fight off death when it had already reached for Legolas. He could not do the same for her.

The weight of saying good-bye to her family and the death of way too many friends had turned Tarisilya's impressive appearance that had always radiated so much confidence, into but the shade of an elf. Skinny, trembling all over her body even when unconscious, unable to move on her own. She would die in his arms.

"Forgive me." His own voice sounded foreign to him. "I led you to your death. I should have let you go long ago. Tegiend was right the whole time. I'm poison for you."

"Stop." First, he thought he was only imagining her voice. That she could impossibly wake up in this condition.

But when he looked up, her eyes were open and full of tears. " _Stop it_!" Again, with more vigor this time. "You're taking every splendor off our love, badmouthing it like that. I do not regret anything, ever! How do you think it makes me feel if you suddenly do? Don't you love me anymore?"

"More than anything." Understanding that his self-blame burdened her even more, Legolas tried his best to smile. He didn't want to ruin what could be their last hours with what would haunt him for an eternity. Now, it only counted what was between them, as long as they could still enjoy it. "You have to get well again, Ilya. I don't want to lose you …" Empty words without any hope that his beloved answered only with an indulgent smile.

Elves always felt it when their time had come. Too naturally, they were living with eternity to not feeling the blackness inside when their fate was completely out of balance. Legolas had been very young when he had had to learn that for the first time.

Tarisilya pulled his hand close to her face and nuzzled against it. Her smile grew when she felt cooling metal on her skin. "You're wearing it …"

"I promised you, we'd be together when all of this is over. Now nothing can come between us anymore." The joyous sparkle in Tarisilya's eyes just made things worse. Trying to blink away the veil before his eyes didn't help. It kept on coming back, falling down on their laced fingers, dully glistening in the candlelight.

"Don't." Talking was visibly hard for Tarisilya. Hollow coughs ripped through her chest. "Don't you know how happy you're making me, ever since we first met? How happy I am now? Knowing that this world is finally free, that you have survived this battle and you will keep continuing your way – nothing could be better." Her voice grew quieter by the word. "How I wish I could stay with you ... But it hurts so much, Legolas ... I just cannot decide between you and my family. The moon has long given up on me. Lórien, my home, is dying … It's like there is nothing holding me here."

"You can't say that, Ilya. I'm here with you, can't you see that? I will help you …" Legolas' voice died away as well. Tarisilya shaking her head at him destroyed the last of his composure; a first sob was choking him. It didn't matter what he would tell her.

He had come too late.

Only after many minutes that Legolas spent in her arms, shaking, his head resting on her shoulder, Tarisilya found enough strength to speak again. She nodded at the mattress, sighing in relief when he understood immediately and laid down with her.

"This is what I've been waiting for since I let Tegiend go on alone. I thought I had lost you when I reached the White City too late. Now everything is well. I wanted to do this so often back then, when we had to hide from everyone. To be by your side, to feel you … your skin …" She carefully leaned in towards him, enjoying the soft sensation of his hair against her neck. She had already fallen in love with his hair when she had met him for the first time. And with his voice, so beautifully warm and melodious … Many nights had passed since then, in which she had dreamed about all this – dreams that had made her blood run immodestly hot.

Only later, when she had really gotten to know Legolas, she had learned to appreciate all of him, his calmness, his mostly even temper, his passionate fighting spirit, his youthful playfulness. Smooth, fluent movements that she finally wanted to feel on her body, up close … It probably would not come to that now.

Suddenly she was the one with tears in her eyes. The two of them had missed out on so much ... But she was thankful for this one moment without any secrets, without having to be afraid of the world. They belonged together. Nothing and no one would be able to separate them now, except for the death that Tarisilya would face with the same determined smile that she kept up for Legolas, if it really was to befall her tonight.

Once more, she got lost in Legolas' far too serious eyes. She didn't want him to look at her like that. She needed him to understand how perfect this moment was, no matter what would come next. Her fingertips slowly traced his cheek. "I've longed for your lips most ..."

Fortunately, he quickly took that hint as well; his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her close. Their lips met in a touch that slowly grew more intense, a still slightly insecure mutual exploration, occasionally complemented by the cautious, curious caress of just the tip of a tongue. Only when Tarisilya's trembling grew worse, Legolas pulled back from her, visibly alarmed.

But it wasn't her condition overwhelming her. It was her feelings. She began to understand what she might be losing soon. Quickly, she shied away from his eyes, because she couldn't help the tears any longer at all now.

"There is still strength in you!" Legolas freed himself from her embrace, sitting up. "Aragorn can help you …"

"No." Tarisilya shook her head, tiredly but with unbroken determination, keeping him in the tent more effectively than any hug could. "There are others here who need him much more. Don't ask him to make that decision, Legolas. He's done too much for that, for you and for all of us. I … I will make it through this, somehow. And even if not ... Someday, when things will be different for us, maybe ... Right now, I'm just happy just to be here with you, why can't you see that?"

"You are not." Legolas hugged his knees to his chest, shivering so badly that she could actually see it. "Don't think I can't feel what's going on inside of you. Do not pretend, Ilya. That doesn't make it any better."

She reached out for him ever until he turned back to her. "I am not saying that it's easy. Do you think I don't want a future with you soon? I have wished for a thousand years to finally be with you. To marry you, to have your children … I saw it …" Her eyes turned unfocused when she remembered the images, her much more grown-up dreams nowadays were showing her. Most recently, on her way to Ithilien, when her senses had failed her and only visions had lighted up the darkness before her eyes. "Our son … He was so beautiful. He had your hair, your eyes … We were out hunting. You were so proud of him …" A hoarse sob escaped her throat that was sore from coughing already.

Bursting into tears finally was too much for her body. She blacked out again.

If someone sneaked through a healing camp in the middle of the night, unauthorized but without evil intentions and without anyone noticing, that could actually only be a hobbit feeling hungry – or one who couldn't sleep. Both a rare occurrence for these folks. For Sam, both was the case though.

He had already gotten quite far on his secret raid when he saw someone sitting by one of the many patient tents. He quickly hid behind another of the shelters, but that someone had buried his face against his knees and never even looked up. How could anyone be so sad in this night of newly achieved freedom? Becoming curious, Sam took a closer look and realized that it wasn't a stranger at all but a very pleasant surprise. "Legolas! It's me, Samwise …"

Hesitatingly, he stepped closer when no reaction followed.

Maybe the elf was asleep and needed a blanket or something? That elves were sometimes resting in the most uncomfortable positions, Sam remembered very well from their journey. Also, that while coldness didn't bother Firstborn half as much as Men, Dwarves and Hobbits, in moments when they didn't feel well, they could absolutely be freezing.

No, Legolas wasn't asleep. When Sam stopped right in front of him and he looked up, Sam startled back. He had never seen his friend look like that. Pale, with reddened eyes, not as serene as usual but filled with anger …

When he recognized Sam, at least the anger subsided, and the elf forced himself to get up. The warmth with which he grabbed Sam's shoulder, felt honest. "It's good to see that you're already doing so well, Samwise Gamgee. You have accomplished marvelous things."

"But I only accompanied Mister Frodo." So much recognition made Sam feel uncomfortable. Embarrassed, he started twisting the hem of the brand-new white shirt that Aragorn had brought to him earlier. "It was him who carried the Ring."

"And you carried him, in every way possible. You should be proud of yourself, Sam." Legolas firmly squeezed his shoulder once more before letting go of him. "But you shouldn't be here. You are still sporting the scars of your adventure. The healer can't have released you yet, did they?"

"Not exactly." Sam blushed up to the tips of his ears. "I wanted to … I'm a little hungry. And they're celebrating over there … But Strider said that Frodo and I should be sleeping."

"You should," Legolas nodded. "Nobody means to hurt you, Sam, on the contrary. Go ahead, get something to eat, but then you need to keep on resting and let your wounds heal."

"I will try."

Sam shifted from one foot to another. Actually, this was none of his business, but somehow he felt, he wasn't the only one who could use a bit of advice right now. "Who is that in that tent?"

For long seconds, Legolas just looked into his eyes. It was clear to see how hard it was for him to answer. "An elf that I love," he finally managed to say. "An Elf that is about to die."

The answer confused Sam even more. "If someone I loved would be sick, I wouldn't leave their side for even a second." He took a scandalized look around. "Why isn't there a healer here? I'm sure they can …"

In spite of the weak lighting from too few torches on the trees, he could see Legolas silently shaking his head, and paused. "Oh."

"She doesn't know anymore if I'm there or not. It doesn't make a difference." Legolas sank down in front of the tent again and blankly stared at the ground. "I just cannot watch this. I can't do this again."

"How do you know she can't feel it?" Sam tried in vain to hide his lack of understanding. Truth was, in the months when the Fellowship had still been intact, he had never been able to spend as much time with the elf as he would have wanted.

As a reliable night watch and often being away from the group as a scout, also being close-lipped by nature, Legolas had seldom made long conversations with him possible; that he even _had_ a beloved was completely news to Sam. Sam had learned a few things from Aragorn about their elvish companion though. For example that the King's son who on their journey had never wanted to be addressed or introduced as such, to not endanger his realm and his father alone, had led Mirkwood's defenses for a long time. That he had always made sure, the numerous dangers in his lands had not cost too many elves their lives. Before the war, Legolas had not seen as much death as one would suspect about a being who had lived that long. The alleged catastrophe about Gandalf's death back then, of which Sam still couldn't quite believe that it had turned out for the best, had overwhelmed him completely already. Maybe he still didn't know how to deal with grief.

"Do you always know everything for certain? No one does, not even Gandalf! Mister Frodo for example, always said that we would never go back to the Shire! And now we are here! Soon we will go home! Maybe she does know and just can't show it. Maybe she's waiting for you."

"You hobbits, you are just amazing." Legolas stopped him with a short gesture whereupon a glowing ring lit up the earthly path. "When next I'm trying to make a difficult decision, I should take a trip to the Shire." He got back to his feet, not half as arduously as earlier but at least with a hint of his usual elegance.

"Can I see her?" A year full of suffering, fear and despair had not made it to kill Sam's curiosity. The question just slipped out, like so many things that he often said thoughtlessly. He finally wanted to learn more about his companion, from him himself this time. He wanted to know how the elf by his side looked. If she was as beautiful as the unapproachable Lady Arwen …

But heavens, not _now_.

"Go back, Sam." Fortunately, Legolas ignored the small insolence and left to enter the tent.

Sam kept on standing there for a moment, silently, with the bad feeling that he had missed something, that there was something he hadn't said or done that he should have.

When he realized what it was, he started to run as quickly as his exhaustion allowed him to.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam didn't bother knocking before entering another tent nearby, the biggest of the ones serving as living spaces for the healers. The tent of the future King. Indeed, he did find Aragorn inside, bent over a bedside. Sam couldn't make out whom his friend was trying to help there right away, for there was just as little light in here as in the camp outside. It almost felt as if after the long night of Middle-earth, the courageous warriors were a little bit afraid of the returning light. "Strider? I don't want to disturb you …"

"You are the last person who could do so." There was a surprised frown on Aragorn's face when he looked up, as Sam proudly noticed. While Hobbits, similarly to Elves, had the ability to move quite soundlessly, Aragorn had actually always noticed the halflings on their journey, wherever they had been. Right now, he seemed too lost in thought to be mindful of his surroundings. Even Dúnedain sometimes lost their concentration.

Sam corrected his own thoughts immediately: Before Aragorn could be addressed with such a title still, he should probably decide what he even was right now. Right now, he was neither a Dúnadan nor the King that this country had been longing for so long. The burden of transferring from one life to another was visibly tearing at Aragorn, like stones that weighed him down when he got up.

Still, he forced a small smile on his lips and knelt down to hug Sam. "I'm just surprised to see you. I expected you to be just as deeply asleep as Frodo."

Sam pawed at the ground in embarrassment. "I tried, but my stomach suddenly felt so empty. At some point, I just started to wander through the camp."

"With all due respect to a hobbit's appetite, you do still need rest. Sit." Aragorn pointed at a chair and the table where some fruit had been prepared. Then he sat back down on the sickbed to continue his work before Sam could explain why he had come.

Sensing that it wouldn't be such a good idea, mentioning to Aragorn how upset he looked, Sam took in the surroundings instead, his curiosity peaking. What kind of patient was that, that had been brought here of all places? Whom did that shadowy slender silhouette on the bed belong to?

After snatching an apple from the small wooden plate, he carefully peeked past Aragorn's tall figure and gasped, surprised and in shock.

That being with the feverishly glowing cheeks who turned restlessly from one side to another on that cot, Sam knew very well, at least by face. It was the elf, Strider was being so close to. "Lady Arwen?"

A quiet, pained moan from the elf's lips had Aragorn startle. A kind of invisible veil darkening his eyes seemed to shield him from the outside world.

"Strider? What is she doing here? What happened?" His own irredeemable inquisitiveness promptly made Sam shrunk another size or two.

Aragorn looked him over for a moment as if trying to see into his very soul. He had to know that in the beginning, Sam had mistrusted him deeply, a feeling later turning into just as deep respect that still had him keep some distance though. By now, they liked each other just fine, but some subjects were just too sensitive to discuss them, even with friends.

"Believe me, I should very much like to know. Arwen was always a fighter. I'm sure you'll remember that she was the one who saved Frodo from the Ringwraiths at Weathertop. What made her follow us to Mordor however, I cannot tell. Especially since she was already sick when she did." Aragorn shook his head jerkily. "It doesn't really matter. I just wish she was the only one to make it out of all of this unharmed."

Sam looked down at the elf's bloated face in sympathy. Never before had he seen a Firstborn in such a bad condition. "What's wrong with her?"

"It was a stab with a dagger. Although Arwen has given up her immortality a while ago, her body, fortunately, still heals faster than a woman's. It doesn't look good though." Again, these short breaks between Aragorn's sentences, as if he was retreating completely from the world, again and again, to straighten out something inside of him.

Only after several seconds of silence, he looked at Sam again. "But you didn't come looking for me because you wanted to know whom I'm watching over tonight. I can tell by the tip of your ears."

"I just thought …" Why was that suddenly so hard? He hadn't had any problems talking to Legolas earlier! In some way, with Aragorn, it was different. But Sam knew he had to tell his friend what he had seen, now more than ever. He just couldn't allow two Firstborn to be dying in this camp this night. "Well, _you_ also helped Frodo on Weathertop when he was feeling so bad, and …"

When Sam had finished his last, quickly stuttered word, a hint of pain marked Aragorn's features that he was not feeling for the first time in these last few days. Actually, he had thought that Legolas and he had finally settled that.

After a moment of silence in which nothing but the howling of the wind outside could be heard, he got up sluggishly. He was no longer ready to go easy on the elf; that much he knew now. "Was there a free bed in the she-elf's tent?"

"As far as I remember, yes. Why?" Sam scratched the back of his head in confusion.

Aragorn motioned him to hold open the tent flap for him. "If the elf doesn't want to see to me, I'll just have to go to him." He didn't want to call for a healer to have someone stay here while he would be checking on Tarisilya. Aragorn would feel more at ease when he could watch his beloved himself. And he had enough of a bad conscience about not being able to see other patients as it was.

"Lead the way. No matter what Legolas tells you, you will prepare the second cot. If he has objections, he can save them for me."

"But Legolas was … He seemed so …" Sam went silent when he caught Aragorn's strict glance and did as he'd been told.

Sam had not needed to worry that he would have to stand his ground against a Firstborn. He doubted that Legolas even really noticed when he entered, on tiptoes, and put fresh linen on the bed next to the one that Legolas was sitting at. Every now and then, he cast a furtive side-glance at the two elves, but the picture was so frightening that he turned away again every time, shivering.

The she-elf of whom he could only see a terribly white face, was oblivious to her surroundings, just like Legolas had said. Every now and then, her closed eyes shifted restlessly beneath their lids; apart from that, her body under the thick blanket was motionless. At least Sam's advice had not gone unheard. It seemed to help that the elf's head was resting on Legolas' leg. The proximity apparently kept the worst of dreams in check and chased them away for good whenever Legolas touched the elf's sweat-covered forehead. Then her breathing grew calmer, and the eerie silence returned that could almost make one believe, this was indeed a room of the dead.

Maybe Legolas did know that Sam was being here with him after all. When he suddenly started to sing, it sounded as if he'd been interrupted earlier and was resuming now after a moment of confusion. The mournful melody and the deep notes made understanding Sindarin unnecessary to know, it was a lament. Not one as bright and clear as the Lórien elves had chanted when they had all thought that they had lost Gandalf. This was a song of despair.

Now, there was no joy left in Sam either, about the long fighting being over. He retreated to the entrance to wait for Aragorn, suddenly wishing, he had indeed just gone back to his tent earlier.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the lovely reviews! I was beginning to think, there was no one here at all. You guys made my week.

For the moment, Aragorn did not heed Legolas when he carefully laid Arwen down on the new bed and covered her up quickly, so her body wouldn't grow even colder. It wasn't like the elf was even looking up anyway.

"If I ever hear you talk about the stubbornness of dwarves again, I will punch you in the face without a warning. There are many things I can achieve, but only if I know where I'm needed in the first place. I do not feel yet at home in these lands enough to notice everything going on around here. There's no animals in this camp either to tell me what certain people don't seem to be willing to."

Shaking his head, he bent over Tarisilya and gently rested his hand on her forehead. That she didn't wake from that, couldn't surprise him.

The much too thin sight of her body was a shock. He had seen the she-elf once before, in Imladris, before the war, at the same time when Legolas and he had met for the first time. Back then, there had already been something between those two that they had hardly been able to hide. It really hadn't been hard to guess who it was that his friend had always been so mysterious about. But with how the Noldo looked now, Aragorn wouldn't have recognized her if someone had asked him to.

"Sam, get a few more candles, please. What we need here is light. I know that I am asking much of you by telling you to leave one of Lady Galadriel's gifts out of sight for even a moment, but we need that as well. The ground of the Golden Wood spreads more warmth than anything else in these realms. Maybe it helps a little if it emits its smell in here. Sometimes, triggered memories can give people strength too."

Sam nervously tugged on his collar but just nodded then and hurried to the tent where the few belongings were stored that he and Frodo still had left after their long journey. He was clearly reluctant to give this treasure away even for a while, but he understood how much depended on it. If it would help the she-elf, he would probably plant a whole garden in the tent and personally run to Lórien to get some flowers and soil.

Aragorn watched him leave in appreciation before he sat down on Arwen's bed to feel her pulse. His eyes were on Legolas though.

"What exactly is wrong with your partner? I can see the exhaustion in her body from here; the one in her soul, only you know. I need to learn what it is that I am fighting if I want to have a shot at victory."

"I have seen you do many impressive things, mellon, most of it last year. But this time, you're trying to deal with a war already lost. Believe me. I have witnessed something like this before. There is nothing left to do." For the first time, Legolas at least showed any kind of reaction, even though it was only a few sentences, after which he fell silent again immediately.

He didn't even seem to have realized who else was in this tent now. That more than anything made Aragorn realize, how poorly Legolas was doing, how much grief was clouding his senses. He was nearly as close to Arwen as Aragorn himself. Aragorn wondered if the truth was maybe just too terrible for him to face. If his heart was simply refusing to take any more fear.

Any other day, he could have empathized with that but today, he couldn't allow his friend this kind of escape. For the sake of the two elves alone, who needed all the support that they could get.

"I have triumphed more than once with an enemy's blade already at my throat, as you very well know. _Especially_ after last year, you should know that almost nothing is impossible. Legolas. Please. Look at me. Look at _us_! Not only on you have the Valar imposed the hardest challenge of all tonight."

When his appeals finally got through to the elf and Legolas slowly turned his head, Aragorn knew that he had been right. Legolas had probably spotted Asfaloth between the soldiers' horses even before Aragorn had; and he'd probably lied to himself about being mistaken even more ferociously than Aragorn had, too.

Neither of them could afford that kind of false comfort anymore. "Tarisilya is not your mother, Legolas. She still has a chance. Just like Arwen. But we can only make it through this together." Aragorn only just raised his voice when Legolas' eyes went wide, when he stared at Arwen's unconscious body for a few long seconds before covering his face with his hands, still remaining silent.

Aragorn had neither time nor any nerves to deal with the elf's lethargy. Hectically, he rummaged about in his bag for a few new cloths, and for herbs for tea. One short look at that she-elf's face that was marked by months of suffering, already let him know that it was almost too late indeed. "If you can't add anything else to this, you should maybe consider if there's a place you would rather be right now."

Not even waiting for an answer, he got to work.

For the first time in hours, the suffocating emptiness in Legolas' soul retreated a little and allowed in the hurricane of dark feelings that he'd been suppressing so much in order to be there for Tarisilya. It probably wouldn't make a difference, but since Aragorn seemed to care about it so much, he might as well make a long-overdue confession.

"You want to know what's wrong with her? What you see is the sum of mistakes, I've been making for a thousand years. They keep on saying about me, I'm robbing the cradle with her, yet I'm the one who should be learning from her. She didn't want you to waste strength in this endeavor when it is needed somewhere else. That's the only reason I didn't call you."

His pain-filled eyes strayed to Arwen in the other bed. How she of all people had come here as well, why she had so needlessly risked her life … None of that made a difference anymore. He only felt encouraged in his decision now. At least his best elven friend should be allowed to live.

With his voice growing louder, Tarisilya startled, so he quickly backed away from the bed and sank down to the ground at the tent's side. Maybe his words would lose impact, would become less true if Tarisilya didn't hear them, not even unconsciously.

He didn't feel much like talking though, anyway. All he wanted was being alone again in the darkness, with his just-as-black thoughts. The sight of Tarisilya stole the very air from his lungs more with each passing hour. It had taken Sam to tell him first, before he'd realized how cowardly it would have been, leaving now. He would stay until it was over to support Tarisilya in her few waking moments. Once she would take her last breath, there probably wouldn't be much left in him that was still viable either.

The prospect even held something like hope. In the Halls of Mandos, he might see Tarisilya again. Maybe they could finally be together there. Or maybe later, someday, when they would be sent back … Would they finally be able to treat each other right then, without destroying the other?

"It would be much too easy to blame someone else for her condition. Men, maybe. The shadow of the wars didn't give elves many reasons to fight for this world, when there's eternal peace waiting for them in the west. While I was never among those who blamed your folk for this, I do know that the two persons Ilya loves most, had every right to leave her alone and start a better life. I could probably be blaming my father too. Or Lady Galadriel. Everyone who prevented Ilya and me from living like a normal couple. But all these circumstances are meaningless compared to what I have to answer for. Her death is my punishment for not making her leave this world in time."

A mix of cynical laughter and a dry sob interrupted the little speech. "The punishment for actually believing that she would follow my request to leave. As if I didn't know, she's just as stubborn as you are. This is not a wound, you can treat with the abilities of a Dúnadan and with a few herbs and linen, Aragorn. You of all people should know that my kin dies of a broken heart."

When Sam scurried back in, he had turned even another shade paler, which made the small wounds on his hollow-cheeked face stand out even more. He seemed confused; maybe he had heard the last sentences and didn't quite understand them. He almost dropped his casket and the candles, because Aragorn suddenly jumped up, his eyes beaming with anger, so abruptly that his chair flipped over with a bang.

It felt like Aragorn was growing an inch with every move. He was suddenly radiating that kingly determination again that had confused especially the hobbits so much at the beginning of their journey, as it was not becoming a simple Dúnadan. In the light of the night, the eagle-shaped brooch with the green gem that Lady Galadriel had given Aragorn back then, dimly gleamed, as if it wanted to bring out its bearer's appearance, his tense shoulders, a posture as if he was standing on a battlefield once more.

Sam hurried past the man and made himself as small as possible in the backmost corner of the tent. It was obvious how tempted he was to cover his ears, too, because Aragorn's voice suddenly vibrated with so much wrath that even the gentle Sindarin language sounded threatening.

"I have never born a grudge so big against you, Legolas Thranduilion, that I felt a wish to do you harm. But if you ever raise your voice against me like that again, we will find out if an elf's reflexes do indeed outmatch a man's. Does a simple _Dúnadan_ laying hands upon your betrothed bother you? You dare tell me again, I don't know what I'm doing and I will demonstrate more qualities of a man who lived in the wilderness for decades than you might care to learn about."

Aragorn had lost even that calmness with which he had talked to Sauron's negotiator. "You seriously think, you have to tell _me_ how much elves suffer from being apart from their family? Did you possibly forget whom I am giving my love to? Whose fate _I_ have to answer for? If you take another look at this bed right here, you might see that a she-elf can face even the most unfavorable circumstances. Only that you seem to have given up, is plunging Tarisilya into this darkness. I will not let your self-pity disturb my work, no matter how amateurish it might be in the eyes of a noble elf. So you can either help me, or I will personally make sure that you stop endangering your partner even more."

For a moment, they both were much too close to draw their weapons, upset by the other's thoughtless and partly misunderstood words that at no other point would have been spoken, that wouldn't even have fully formed in their minds.

But then Legolas became aware how absurd just considering fighting was, for the only reason that they both wanted the same. There soon would probably be enough that he would regret saying. For now, the finding that he indeed was doing nothing but damage here was sufficing to pull himself together.

"Sam, please go now. Sleep some more. Thanks for your help." Admittedly, that should have sounded a lot more sincere. Such words didn't mean much when you couldn't even bring yourself to look at your conversation partner. At some point in the last hours, Legolas' sense of politeness had gone missing. He could worry about such things again when he didn't feel like laying down on the next best hill to die anymore.

At least he finally found enough energy to get up again. First, he didn't know which way to turn, if maybe he really should just follow Sam. The simple choice, no doubt. Retreating, waiting for Aragorn to see for himself that his efforts were in vain …

The alternative was a lot more difficult. Finding a glimpse of hope in the last part of his soul still lit and focusing on that, only to inevitably feel then, for a second time, that he was sitting at a deathbed … That would be more than his heart could take.

But had he not already resigned to following Tarisilya if she was to die? What difference did it make then? The urge to leave the sick tent finally disappeared for good when he could read in Tarisilya's restlessly moving eyes that dreams plagued her once more.

She needed him, at least that much was for sure, even if it was only to guard her sleep. Her breath evened out immediately when he was sitting next to her again. He could even swear to see the hint of a smile on her lips. Instinctively, he wondered what it was that she was seeing now.

_He had your hair, your eyes … We were out hunting. You were so proud of him …_

What kind of fate was it that tried to steal this future of happiness from them, after all that they had gone through already? The grief was replaced by anger. Not now. _Not now of all times_.

"You are not going anywhere, moon-queen. Not while I'm here with you." She couldn't return his embrace, not like earlier, but just lying beside her and holding her cast out a little bit of that coldness in Legolas' soul.

Her body in his arms was not dead just yet.

Aragorn silently stared down at the scene on the neighboring bed before he got moving with a start, stiff as if he'd just woken up after a cold night outdoors. First, he opened Lady Galadriel's casket whereupon pictures flashed across his mind that wanted to make clear thoughts impossible for a moment. Lórien, Cerin Amroth. How he'd been standing on that small hill with Arwen … Every single detail of this immensely important moment was ineradicably branded in his memory. The very clean scent of the trees, enriched with the sweet smell of Elanor and Niphredil … The sight of the stars …

And even more beautiful than the whole ocean of flowers, Arwen's lovely face right in front of him. Her smile when they had pledged themselves to each other.

Today, he wouldn't have recognized this face if he didn't know, it was her.

Aragorn only realized that his hand was shaking when he pulled it back and the casket's lid shut with a too-loud bang. Seeing Legolas with Tarisilya showed just too painfully what he himself could lose tonight. Suddenly, he wasn't all that certain if he could muster up enough strength for another healing attempt. What if his thoughts would stray to his other patient too often? He could possibly do more harm than help Legolas' betrothed.

A strained sigh of said elf had Aragorn startle. Before he knew what he was doing, he opened the casket again, took a few grains of earth between thumb and index finger, and let it trickle back into the wooden box. "May the magic of Lórien rouse good ghosts in here as well," he murmured, so quietly that even Legolas couldn't hear.

Closing his eyes, Aragorn consciously allowed the pain in his heart for a moment, before he straightened up and suppressed everything that was weakening him. Ever since he had learned about Arwen's sickness, he had done nothing but fight, for all of Middle-earth, but also to save her. His body had done what fate had asked of him, his soul had frozen though. It wasn't any different now.

Tarisilya needed him, and so did Arwen who wasn't even close to being out of the woods yet. The two she-elves couldn't be punished for having the courage to cling to their hope. They would not pay for their belief in the power of the Free Folks in the face of darkness, or for their faith in the ones they loved, as long as there was even a spark of strength left in Aragorn's body.

When he kindled a small fire right outside the tent, to heat a bowl of water, he was actually expecting a stupid comment about Dúnedain methods from Legolas, at the latest when he threw a few Athelas leaves in it and the spicy scent infused the surroundings. But it stayed silent at Tarisilya's bedside.

Relieved, he soaked several cloths in the stock, one of them replacing the one he had put on Arwen's infected wound earlier already. Another one, he laid on her forehead. The last, he placed on Tarisilya's much too weakly rising and falling chest.

Legolas kept silent, but Aragorn could feel every of his critical glances. "Breathing in the vapors has a pain-relieving effect." Actually, he didn't have to explain the powers of that plant to Legolas, but the first words not spoken in anger since their argument helped him concentrate on his actions better. "Above all though, they are soothing the mind. Allow this weathered warrior some serenity too," he added with a weak smile, one of his hands resting on Tarisilya's forehead already. The other, he let linger above her chest, her heart, not even an inch from her body.

Aragorn's own body was taken by the impassivity that always accompanied such a healing process. It was like every smallest of his movements was put on ice. In the following minutes, only his expression gave away what was going on inside of him, how much effort it cost him, fighting the weakness in Tarisilya's body. His voice, whispering ceaseless Sindarin words, from time to time faltered, until it finally hushed and heavy silence spread in the tent.


	9. Chapter 9

When this first phase came to an end, Aragorn raised his voice again unexpectedly. His submersion apparently was not deep enough for him to have missed hearing Arwen's far too quick breathing, or the tormented moans that mixed with it with increasing frequency. Or to have failed seeing how worriedly Legolas kept on bending over his old friend, murmuring pleading words to her. "Boil up some new stock please, mellon, and renew her compresses. Try to get her to drink some water. Tarisilya's battle will be decided tonight. Arwen might suffer for days to come, only to not be strong enough in the end after all."

With the ever-present fear of that danger trembling through his voice, Aragorn gladly accepted the support of Legolas hesitantly placing a hand on his shoulder, before he went silent again.

Legolas for his part was relieved about being forced to deal with something else for a while; anything but the she-elf in his arms who should long have been dead. Tarisilya's heart still was beating; she still was fighting for every breath she took, but after each one, it felt like whole millennia of waiting for Legolas. Every single time, he was certain that it had been the last one.

But when he straightened up, Tarisilya startled immediately, with a quiet groan, because she was missing his warmth, his touch, the whispers in her ear that encouraged her to hold on to what little light was left inside of her. It was true indeed: His presence here was just as important as everything that Aragorn did, and never again in his whole life could he be so weak that he would abandon Tarisilya.

"I'll be right back, elwen nín." Legolas sounded so exhausted as if his own life energy had poured into Tarisilya's soul. His gaze riveting on the battered saddlebags on the floor, he followed his intuition and opened one of them, promptly coming up exactly with what he was looking for. A book bound in red leather, its pages quite yellowed from age by now. The moon that someone had drawn on the cover long ago was still recognizable though. Carefully, he slipped the book under the pillow. "Your mother is with you, Ilya."

It seemed to help, she was falling silent.

Which allowed him to follow Aragorn's request, though he kept on looking over his shoulder through the tent door, plagued by the completely irrational fear that Tarisilya would just vanish if he left her out of sight for more than a few seconds.

Only once he was sitting by Arwen's side, his attention inevitably strayed to his friend. The anger hit again, like an iron fist punching into his guts.

This was exactly what he had pictured in his worst nightmares, from the moment, Arwen had confessed to him her decision to get trained for battle. Back then, she had been wise to not say anything earlier.

Legolas had learned early from his father that she-elves normally shouldn't be wielding a sword, although they could endure in battle as well as an elf, as they had other, more important duties to fulfill. Among others, the art of medicine that only a few male elves like Lord Elrond ever fully dedicated themselves to, since every single life that you took could decimate the valuable gift of healing. Only in the worst case of emergency, it was common to call the she-elves to the front as well …

Arwen had obviously been of the opinion, the conflict at the Black Gate had been one. That this had been her fight, too.

"How, Aragorn? Why?"

"Will you believe me when I'm telling tell you, I don't know? The last I heard from ada was what I told you. I _wish_ she was still only exhausted from grief."

"Well, it seems she found her own way to regain her will to live." His lips tightly pressed together, Legolas stared down at the very well-known face, hoping just like Aragorn it wouldn't soon start to haunt him in his dreams. If that was to happen though, it wasn't up to him to blame anyone, especially not Arwen. For that, he respected her and her decisions way too much, even when he didn't like them.

In spite of a fever that would have long carried off many other patients, of her sweaty cheeks, her stringy hair – Arwen still radiated a hint of this sublime, noble energy that distinguished so many she-elves. All her life, she had fed off this inner glow, following her very own stars after her mother had left these realms. What she had set her mind to since then, she had not only achieved but excelled at it. For whatever reason she had thrown herself into this hopeless seeming battle, she didn't look like a little girl who had slipped on armor and pretended to be a warrior.

"She wanted to fight for this world and for you, not only for us elves. We can never hold that against her, Aragorn. She deserves as much respect as every soldier who rode with us to Mordor."

Maybe it was the new compressions, or the water cooling on Arwen's chapped lips that gave her body new strength. At Legolas' last words, her lids suddenly started to flutter. Her fever didn't allow her to escape unconsciousness completely though. After murmuring a few indistinct, unintelligible sentences in Sindarin, she halfway dozed off again already, with a last choked whisper. "Estel …"

Legolas quickly put a hand on her shoulder to try and keep her awake. He had never had much training in healing, but one of the most important sentences, even he knew. He had heard it from Aragorn as well in the last hours, again and again. "Thelin le thaed. Lasto beth nín, tolo dann na ngalad."

_I come to help you. Hear my voice and come back to the light._

Arwen hardly seemed to notice him. Only when he said her name a few times, she opened her eyes again, to hardly more than a slit. A weak smile curled on her lips before her senses left her again.

Legolas quickly caressed her cheek before he leaned back, swallowing those tears that had been lurking way too close to the surface in the last few hours. That wouldn't help anyone. Aragorn was right … Grieving, before fate even was decided, only made things worse. Without thinking much about it, he started on a quiet song that he wanted to try giving the two she-elves strength to fight their ever-growing weakness with.

"Legolas." The last hummed notes of that song about hope were suddenly interrupted by the sound of Aragorn's voice.

All of a sudden, Legolas felt paralyzed. He was afraid to open his eyes, to see what his friend tried to bring to his attention. How long had he been sitting by Arwen's side? What if Tarisilya's condition had grown worse, just because he had left her alone for too long …

No, she wasn't feeling worse. His betrothed had turned her head his way and looked at him unwaveringly from her big, green brown eyes.

This time, it was pure relief exhausting Legolas so much that he walked back to her bed as if in trance. Silent drops of salt fell on Tarisilya's neck, their origin only hidden by their heartfelt embrace.

"No more words of death." While it was easy to hear that there still was hardly any energy in Tarisilya, it was enough to mutter something to Legolas. And finally, she no longer sounded as if she'd given herself up. "Peace has finally found this world. Look forward. Your life goes on."

With some effort, she turned to the man who had been fighting for her for hours now. She didn't manage more than to shortly nod at him, but Legolas knew this expression in her eyes just too well. He'd seen it on Mithrandir, before and after the battle at the Black Gate, and on other people too, who expressed their emotions in deep, silent appreciation instead of deafening cheers.

Not even a breath of air later, Tarisilya's face became a grimace of pain though, and it was not physical. She had recognized Arwen. "Now you've bothered His Majesty after all. Now of all times, when his healing hands have never been needed so urgently anywhere else before. It's a miracle, you made it out of the war in one piece if you never listen to people."

"If he'd listened to you this time, I would personally have made sure, he wouldn't make it out of this tent in one piece. Don't worry, milady. This she-elf is at least as stubborn as you are. And I will not let either of you go." Aragorn tried to get up, but his body wouldn't obey right away. He had to lean back on his chair to catch his breath, have enough focus to tackle his other endeavor again.

Tarisilya noticed that of course and wanted to protest again, but Legolas cut her short quite rudely by just placing a fingertip on her lips.

"Don't, please. You have to take it easy. Until His Majesty gives you permission, please lie as still as possible, and don't talk." It was almost as if that fight between Aragorn and Legolas had never happened. As if he'd never cowered on the floor of this tent, convinced that his betrothed was about to die.

At least the chance existed now that she could make it, but it was far from certain just yet. Especially because of that, he couldn't reduce his care now.

"The minute there's no orcs to shoot anymore, you're getting cheeky again," Tarisilya murmured in protest, but since she could hardly keep her eyes open anyway, she put up with the little patronization.

Immediately, Legolas' short optimism threatened to shrink again. Tiredly, he rubbed his forehead, as if that could help, wiping out all these worries that couldn't just be smiled away.

"I can feel your fear, even when I can't see it, elwen. Your hand is trembling." Unfortunately, Tarisilya was still far more awake than expected. And as much as she tried to hide it, the very same dread was prevailing in her, of course. An emotion that really didn't need any more fuel.

"Only fear of my father," Legolas retorted, feigning suffering. "Before the journey of the Fellowship began, he suddenly pretended, he's never had anything against our relationship. I've got a funny feeling, he only said that because he thought I wouldn't come back alive. Probably, he's just sitting somewhere in the palace cellars over a huge barrel of wine, coming up with a hundred reasons to disown me."

"Then at least he won't bother us anymore," Tarisilya answered quite unkindly.

"Tell me more. I want to go with you on your quest, at least in my head."

Since that way, Legolas could at least make sure, she wouldn't keep on talking herself, he fulfilled that wish, though reprocessing the war on top of everything else wasn't anything he longed for tonight.

Irrelevant. It was his duty to do everything for Tarisilya's recovery, no matter how much it demanded of him.

So he told her. About that almost childish-naive spirit of optimism in Imladris when the Companions had left, certain that nothing could break up their Fellowship, that they would all be going to Mordor together. About the mercilessly quick sobering, first in Moria, then at Amon Hen, when suddenly, nothing had been left of that resolution to fight the evil in the east as an invincible group.

He described the long hunt that had ended in Helm's Deep, where the bitter taste of a very personal defeat had tried to destroy every hope left in Legolas. First in the great battle – then in an attack on him that had almost ended his adventure for him prematurely. Again, he was glad that the details of that day were mercifully still concealed from him in his own head. He wasn't sure he still would have been capable of talking otherwise.

He wasn't sure how awake Tarisilya really was, that his words weren't maybe only accompanying her dreams. But when he reached that part, she softly squeezed his hand, the memory of the healing after these horrible hours being still very present in her mind.

One would think, stories that mostly contained violence and despair would damage a sick soul even further. More than once, Legolas hesitated to summon particularly bloody images like the Battle of the Pelennor Fields and the one in Mordor.

But Tarisilya patiently kept on listening, and it seemed to be good for her, to feel for him, as if in hindsight, that could make up for a long time before the war when they had almost never met and she had almost completely refused to either eat or sleep. The time when not even her beloved twin brother could make her talk to anyone, or leave her talan for more than a few rare nightly rides, so she would at least not neglect Manyala.

"Ada would be so unbelievably proud of you," Tarisilya mentioned wistfully, after long minutes of silence, once Legolas stopped and the whole depression of all these last months once more filled the tent, brightened only by the certainty that all of this was over now. "I always wanted that so badly. That he would approach you and tell you that he's proud of you. That he's happy that we're together."

"But he already did." Legolas shuffled closer to her when he saw that she had opened her eyes again. "Don't you remember? In the same year when we gave each other our eternal promise. Maybe he didn't have hope for this world anymore, but he knew that I would take good care of you. Otherwise, he would never have gone to Valinor without you." Tenderly, he took her face between his hands. "And next time he tells me, you'll be with me, moon-queen."

His words released tears that Tarisilya probably hadn't cried since that farewell from her father and the one from her brother. She must have clung violently to the fact that sacrificing living with them would be worth it. Maybe she had been telling herself that she was demeaning Legolas' and her love, being angry or sad. Now she understood that she was very much allowed to be.

"I miss them so much." More and more tears that not too long ago would have been catastrophic for her condition, but now she wasn't trembling so much anymore. Her forehead didn't feel that hot anymore either. "It hurts so much …"

"I know, elwen." Legolas didn't even try to tell her that it would get better someday. Only time would tell. Until then, it was important and right for her to feel this way. He would not let her fall back into the lethargy that had shocked him so badly when the Fellowship had been in Lórien. So much in fact, that he had asked her to leave. Which would not have solved the conflict; only now, he realized that. It would only have meant the other side of this grief. Someone would always get hurt in this matter; they had known that the day, they had started their relationship.

But also that no situation, no matter how hard, lasted forever. "This time, it won't be centuries, Ilya." Legolas left a gentle kiss on her forehead, more support than any empty phrase could express. "You will see them again."

"Don't start making promises again that you can't keep, my prince." A weak, still very sad smile curled on her lips. "Your place is here, with the Free Folks."

"For now." Since the beginning of the war, Legolas had not been able to smile so freely anymore. The battle for Tarisilya's life was won; he didn't need to look at Aragorn to know.

"Our eternity has only just begun, and we should try to enjoy it here for a while, where we found each other. But the day will come when we will follow the call of the Valar together. For my longing for it is just as big as the love binding me to this world, that I will take with me into the west someday." As much determination sounded in his words, as much melancholy his pained expression showed, about even the last elves giving up life in this world. Even those who had always believed, it would never come to that. The glistening in his eyes was not only joy about Tarisilya acting a lot more vibrant than in the last hours.

That, of course, didn't slip his partner's attention either. Very slowly still, she braced herself up on her elbows, then on her arms.

"Ilya, you can't …" Now Legolas was the one being cut off as she just put her hand on his mouth.

She couldn't quite get up yet, but at least she was sitting before him now, proving how mistaken he had really been when he had thought her lost. His promise had reminded her how much she meant to him, what he was ready to give up for her. Their time in the Undying Lands would come, even though the way there was still long. For now, they had finally reached another, just as important destination. "So, will you just be staring at me for the rest of our eternity?"

Legolas thought he could make much better use of their time.

When the two elves got lost in a kiss as if they were alone in the tent, Aragorn finally made it to get up. He sank down heavily onto the chair next to Arwen's bed, to continue what he had stopped for Tarisilya's healing earlier. Arwen was far from being saved yet. To achieve that, another miracle was in order.

After many uttered words in her mother tongue that should help the she-elf like Tarisilya earlier, and after taking as many nightmares from his beloved with soothing words as Aragorn could, his body, unfortunately, asked for some rest again for the first time. After so many days of fighting, and shaken by the fear to lose the most important thing in his life, in spite of defeating Sauron, his mind finally dozed into a restless sleep.

From the corner of his eyes, Legolas saw his friend slump forward but didn't move right away, just kept on watching him and especially his patient with the necessary attention. Tarisilya had fallen asleep in his arms again as well, which was exactly what she needed most right now. That made it easy for him to watch the neighboring bed. Every few minutes, he leaned over to it, to check on Arwen's condition by feeling her forehead and her pulse, but he left Aragorn to his urgently needed rest.

Arwen's high fever went unaltered, but at least the dreams seemed to have stopped. Her body wasn't tossing and turning anymore, so her wound would be able to close.

Aragorn had done what he could. The rest, the she-elf would have to go through alone; not even the best healer of these realms could have helped with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * elwen (nín) = (my) heart


	10. Chapter 10

The moon had been up high in the sky for quite some time when Aragorn was woken up by a hardly noticeable movement grazing his hand. Grumbling, he started to stir and stretch, his limbs aching from the uncomfortable position. He had to blink a few times to get his eyes accustomed to the darkness of the tent.

One look at the other bed revealed that Tarisilya was deeply asleep, with her eyes open, like it was the habit for elves. Though Legolas was laying beside her, unmoving, Aragorn knew exactly that his friend was wide-awake and observing her every breath.

There it was again, the small stir. Arwen's body was shaking with convulsions. The dreams were coming back.

Aragorn quickly rested a hand on his partner's thin shoulder, frowning in surprise when she startled again and opened her eyes unexpectedly. Behind the feverish veil, he thought to see delighted cognition.

There were so many things he should have asked her, that he wanted to tell her. But he feared, his lack of understanding, as well as his anger on her decision, would be showing. He didn't know for how long Arwen would be awake. If he would be able to save her, was still questionable. If this was the last time he could talk to her, he wanted at least to find the right words tonight. "How are you feeling, mîl nín?"

"Somehow, I expected death to be different."

"Don't, Arwen … You're safe now." Aragorn could hardly make out what her trembling voice was saying, and it was even harder to not let his own falter too much.

If he treated Arwen with dispiritedness now, he wouldn’t act any wiser than Legolas at the beginning of the night. He soaked the cloth on Arwen's forehead with cold water and put it back, which she thanked him for by closing her eyes in relief.

"I meant to say: I didn't expect to see your face first thing upon entering the Halls of Mandos."

Arwen’s attempt to smile turned into a twisted expression of discomfort. "Water, please …"

Aragorn filled a cup from the jar next to the bed and put his other hand at the back of Arwen's head, helping her straighten up enough to force a few draughts down her throat. "I’ll have to disappoint you. Neither of us has left these realms yet."

"What happened?" Arwen tried to sit up further, but her body immediately punished her for the useless attempt with a wave of pain that had her gasp loudly.

Aragorn gently pushed her back down, only taking away his hand once she relaxed. "Stop that. You cannot move, the wound is way too fresh."

He waited until Arwen composed herself enough to listen, then he tried it with a grin on his part. "It seems, you wanted to secure a line in another heroic song for yourself. You were found unconscious by the Black Gate and brought to this sick damp in North Ithilien. Ever since I learned that, I've been trying to heal you." As much as he tried, he just couldn't keep the guilt out of his voice. Though he knew, rationally, that the battlefield had been much too big for him to witness every single tragedy, every duel … He would never be able to forgive himself that he had not helped out Arwen of all people when she had needed him most.

His beloved stared at him unwaveringly but had to blink time and again. The fever made her vision blur. The strict expression she had lectured him with so often in the past, didn't quite have the same effect tonight, given the way she kept on grimacing. Every moment of being awake only seemed to make her agony worse. "It's not your fault. Stop beating yourself up. That certainly won't stop the pain, mîl nín."

Without as much as a warning, the fever suddenly provoked a spasm. Arwen tumbled forward with a quiet scream, trembling, holding on to Aragorn as he stabilized her.

The gesture brought tears to Aragorn’s eyes as it only made him realize once more how badly Arwen really was doing. If she had grabbed him in such an uncontrolled way with her former strength, she would have seriously hurt him. Today, he could hardly feel it. Only the growing despair in her eyes was even worse than that.

"Please, Estel …" She kept herself awake by force to get an answer out of him. Like him, she sensed exactly that she might never stand up from this cot again. "You can't punish yourself for my mistakes …"

"Not now, you need to sleep." Aragorn just couldn't bring himself to give her this assurance. The last thing he wanted was lying to her in such a crucial moment. Seeing that she kept on fighting unconsciousness, he lovingly caressed her forehead. "Sî dartho. Nín govedich?"

_Stay here. Will you go with me?_

He didn't get a verbal answer, but Arwen took his hand, squeezing it weakly, and murmured his former elvish name indistinctly once more before going back to sleep.

Stifling a sob, Aragorn hid his face in his hands. He didn’t think he could ever let anyone address him like that again if it had indeed been this declining, beloved voice that had done so last.

"Milord? You really need to eat something." One of the oldest healers in the camp approached Aragorn at the following midday. She was carrying a tray with two soup bowls. One of them, she had probably brought in vain. Arwen had not opened her eyes since that short wake phase in the night, although her fever had gone down by at least a fraction.

A third cup, the woman had already put down by the other sleeping she-elf’s bedside. For a moment, she had clearly hesitated to; the simple meal probably seemed unworthy of a Firstborn to her. But even those had to eat, especially when they were sick.

"Milord?" Since Aragorn couldn't bring himself to answer, Ioreth just put the tray down and stepped closer to him. She examined Arwen's face with sadness, a deep sigh on her lips. "She will make it, I'm certain of it. Unlike so many men in this camp, she will not sigh out her soul."

Aragorn was moving for the first time in hours. That it was quieter around him than last night confused him for a moment, then he remembered that Legolas had left to see to Tarisilya's horse. It had been the very first thing she had asked him upon waking up in the morning.

"How can you be so sure? What are you able to see that is hidden from me?"

"Nothing, Lord, but I have witnessed the difference your hands made for the patients in the Houses of Healing. And this elf seems to be just as tough as unpredictable to me." Only the woman’s quick side-glance at Aragorn revealed her curiosity. She seemed to be waiting for him to tell her about Arwen.

At this point, Aragorn wouldn't dream of it though. He was pretty sure that in spite of all secrecy efforts, one of the soldiers must have talked already anyway. Soon, all of Gondor would know, he was treating his future Queen in this tent. He didn't need to personally fuel even more gossip.

"Anyway. _You_ finally take some refreshment now, or you’ll be the next one we have to take care of here!"

Amused, Aragorn watched the woman leave who was still on her slightly exaggerated rant and crossed his arms.

Eventually, he did reach for the tray though. Unfortunately, the healer was right. Though he had seldom been less hungry in his life, he needed sustenance. Especially since he was a little more optimistic about Arwen's recovery than last night, he couldn’t cut himself any slack now, not for one second. And once his partner would hopefully be stable to some degree, the other patients would need him. He couldn't be collapsing now. A scrutinizing look at the bowl helped to note in relief that the content looked at least better than whatever Éowyn had tried to tout as a stew to him on their way to Helm's Deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * mîl nín = my love


	11. Chapter 11 (M/M smut)

Glorfindel would almost have ridden past him.

While he had a vague idea of the direction his friend could only have fled towards, seeing as Glorfindel had found him neither in the library nor in his chambers, he had _not_ expected Erestor to stop at the only place in this area that could endanger him still, now the last fights had hopefully ended. It was a place, the two of them had discovered shortly after their joint arrival in Imladris, on a hunt for possible secret escapes for emergencies. After all, no one knew better than Gondolin survivors how important those were. Up to today, few people seemed to know about this special route.

"What are you doing here?" He stopped Alagas so abruptly, unshod hooves scraping along the stony ground, that the stallion punished him with a well-deserved bite into his leg.

Glorfindel dismounted and sent the animal outside, to the clearing behind the cave, with an impatient smack on its croup, to protect the Mearh’s sensitive eyes from possible damage from a too-long stay in here. Not everyone could heal as quickly as elves.

His own lids protectively narrowed, to shield himself from the too-glaring light of the stalactites, he knelt down before the huddled shape in black at the cave wall and shook Erestor by his shoulder, annoyed. "Get up. Do you want to go blind?"

"I'm afraid that happened a long time ago, mellon."

So, that was what was really going on then. In addition to the message that had forced Glorfindel to get Erestor out of his solitude once more in the first place, another one reached Imladris today. And the contents of this second one - unlike the one from Estel that had been brought straight to Lord Elrond and that Glorfindel had not even begun to stomach yet - seemed to get about in the valley already. This other special news that sounded just as unbelievable as the final defeat of Sauron at the first moment, this news about the fall of Dol Guldur and the reconciliation between Lórien and Mirkwood, had apparently wrecked Erestor more than the events of all the months before.

It was exactly what they had all thought impossible to happen for thousands of years. Erestor had believed that more firmly than anyone else, after he'd assisted the last Elvenking of Middle-earth for a long time after the death of Thranduil's father and his wife. Therefore, Erestor knew the King better than many other elves did, especially his stubbornness that they had all thought to be unwavering. And in this arrogant certainty, they had stirred up one or two conflicts between those two foreign realms with inconsiderate words even more. In Erestor's case, admittedly, that had not always only happened out of honorable reasons. If someone was as important to the librarian as that she-elf of Lórien that he'd had feelings for a couple of hundred years ago, he tended to overshoot. Sometimes, when you had your eyes opened, that could indeed hurt much more than even the brightest shine. Especially when you were always the one to judge your own mistakes most mercilessly.

"You meant well. Even the eldest does not suspect everything. Not even Lady Galadriel foresaw the Free Folk’s victory. Without it, this reconciliation would never have happened."

"Correct. Which is why the Lady has been keeping out of most things for two Ages." While Glorfindel had to close his eyes now, with a growl of growing annoyance, Erestor still kept on staring away, detached, as if he wouldn't even feel the surrounding’s unpleasant sensations. In the surreal light, his already pale skin looked almost transparent. "Me, I kept on making one wrong decision after the other."

"Had they all been so wrong, we would have lost more elves. You are being too hard on yourself." Glorfindel still didn't let go of Erestor, his grasp only tightened. He didn't want to use gentle force again, to get Erestor to treat his body and mind better, but if he had no choice, he'd never had much of a problem with that.

" _Someone_ has to, since you always refused." At least the defiance waned; a hint of that sardonic humor returned with which the librarian faced most of his environment.

Glorfindel didn't buy into it. That apart from his advisor activities, hardly anyone in this valley was taking this just as tormented as resilient Noldo serious, was one of the very reasons for Erestor's problems. They could talk about that tonight, probably over another half a barrel of wine.

For the moment, Glorfindel had a duty to fulfill. One that gave him at least the feeling of achieving anything useful. " _Someone_ has to keep your limits since you cannot. Come. Lord Elrond needs you. We just got another message from Gondor. Arwen got injured at the Black Gate."

"If you looked at me right now, you would see my surprised face," Erestor replied dryly. "We knew this was going to happen the moment we let her ride out, didn'te we?"

Glorfindel didn't deem it necessary to answer. But even if Erestor was - hopefully - reasonable enough by now to protect his own eyes as well, he at least had to feel Glorfindel’s posture stiffen immediately; how he went from crouching to sitting on the ground to get some distance between them. And Erestor would surely smell the faintest scent of salt in the air that did not originate from the walls.

His friend didn't have more than a cynical but surprised laughter to spare for that either. "Are you being serious right now? Are _you_ blaming yourself for _her_ stubbornness?"

"Where you often act too quickly, I do it too seldom. I could have stopped her." Glorfindel began to understand what Erestor appreciated so much about this dangerous place. It was very easy, pretending that the burning in your eyes only came from the surroundings.

He probably hadn't come here because of an assignment that Lord Elrond had not given him anyway. Just like that quirky loner over there, maybe he was only here because right now, he didn't have anywhere else to go.

"Oh, please. Last time you got an elf that you loved to do something she didn't want, you ended up never seeing her again." Erestor only looked up long enough to chidingly raise an eyebrow at Glorfindel, ignoring the scathing glance that his remark earned him. He was sick of not saying things, only to spare someone's feelings.

Besides, not mincing his words was a great way to get rid of unwanted visitors. It was one of these days when he simply wasn't in the mood for any advice.

"Let's cut this short, shall we? You didn't come here to drag me back to the city, just to hold the Lord's hand. And I'm the last person who needs someone to hold mine. Go celebrate with the others, Glorfindel. Go be with your family. You deserve happier company than a failed scribe."

The answer was bitter, shrill laughter like he usually heard it at most from his friend when Glorfindel's substitute had found especially charming words for him once again, and Erestor and he had enjoyed a little too much of Lord Elrond's wine then. "As long as my _family_ prefers slaying orcs to my presence, an eccentric advisor is a good match for a failed reborn leader."

"Self-doubt doesn't become you, Balrog slayer. You kept our borders as safe as possible. In war, there will always be victims. It was you who hammered that into me better than anyone. And Arwen is tough. Elrond taught his foster son well. He will not let her slip away from him."

Sensing that his words didn't have the desired effect yet, and since he couldn't stand that helpless silence anymore, not from someone who never was thrown off balance that easily, Erestor got up with an unnerved sigh, for the first time in hours, his numb limbs accordingly stiff.

Kneeling before Glorfindel in return now, he impatiently brushed the messy golden curls from his face, relieved to see only paleness, not tears. No scratches that a little excitement and care couldn't grind out. Which probably was the sane alternative to drinking too much once again or a few sessions in the halls of healing if he'd kept on sitting here, feeling sorry for himself.

After a moment of hesitation, he rested his fingers on Glorfindel's cheek, longer than he usually allowed himself to, and fleetingly grazed his closed lids with just the tip of his thumb. "If this is not a day for celebration for the two of us, let’s make it one for rest." In a well-known gesture, his hand tightened on Glorfindel's hair when his friend looked up inquiringly.

A weak but definitely not reluctant looking smile curled on Glorfindel's luscious lips. "You said we should talk first."

"Talking never was our strong suit, was it?" After a resigned shrug, Erestor backed away far enough for Glorfindel to stand up. He rolled his eyes when he was immediately being lifted into legendarily strong arms since trying to get up himself had ended only with massaging his still unresponsive thigh in annoyance. Under protest that was more habit than anything else, he allowed Glorfindel to take him outside, though he wasn't half as drunk as usual at such encounters. And not overly restricted either, certainly not by the few scratches from that one battle outside the city gates that he'd actually been called to for once.

Glorfindel and him hadn't met a single time since then, so Erestor wasn't too surprised when upon their arrival on the clearing, Glorfindel only wanted him undressed to take a look at his back.

Before Erestor was even finished pulling his tunic over his head, his friend gasped for air and whistled for the dark brown Mearh who was busy pawing at the ground a few feet away, to get a bag with healing herbs from the saddle.

"That bad, huh?" Usually, Erestor cared only marginally for his physical wellbeing; but if a trip to the halls of healing was indeed waiting for him later that day, he wanted to mentally brace for that at least.

"What did you do? Lay under the cave troll?"

"Hardly. If you wonder who that maniac was who slid under that troll on a shield to skewer him through his behind, kindly look no further than your substitute. I'm pretty sure he gets that from you, by the way. I rather kept to orcs."

Erestor would have ducked his head, but after the long tensed up position, leaning against sharp-edged rock, he now did feel all those small spots especially along his spine a little bit after all. There probably was one or the other bruise showing there. "When they called me from the library, there just was no time to put on any armor first."

Glorfindel's hand clenched on his shoulder again, and this time it _did_ hurt. "Erestor."

Tiredly placing his right hand on Glorfindel's, he pushed it away. This had happened days ago; he wouldn't discuss it now.

In these hours when according to all they knew, the fate of the Free Folks had been decided as well, at the Black Gate, the orcs roving close to Imladris had gathered for a concentrated attack. That had almost torn a hole into Glorfindel's usually unyielding defense lines around the valley. If that would have happened …

Then a blade through Erestor's heart would have been a very merciful alternative. "At least, it would have been quick. And you should know that I don't feel anything anyway."

"Which is why look like that now." After another deep sigh, Glorfindel fortunately put the subject aside and rather started to blend an intensively spicy smelling, very smooth herb salve. After he'd lotioned Erestor's skin from his shoulder blades down to his waistband with it, the numerous sore pressure marks felt indeed a little better.

Still Erestor was glad when Glorfindel freed the horse hastily of its saddle then, to cushion the pebble-covered ground with the blanket. And that with his well-controlled movements, he made sure, Erestor came to lay on top of him once they had unceremonially shed all their clothes. It wasn't the most ideal place for this, but in the city, there was even less peace right now. And the high rocks and firs all around would grant them enough time to get presentable, should someone have the audacity right now to bother two elves who wanted to indulge in their usual way of forgetting.

Glorfindel's large hands, still smooth from the medicine, already rested on Erestor's behind, gently massaging, when their eyes met, but for the moment, he didn't go any further. "Tell me what you want."

"Nothing that you can give me."

The hurt look on Glorfindel's unearthly beautiful face had Erestor shake his head unwillingly. Valar, there were _reasons_ , they had avoided that conversation so far. Nothing but misunderstandings could come from that. Instead of trying to explain himself, he just bent down to kiss his partner, without even thinking about it, as if this was their first night and they wouldn't have defined their limits yet.

Today, it was alright. Maybe on some days, crossing some lines was permitted to not completely lose yourself in stagnation. "But what I _need_ , I do still gladly get from you. And as long as you need the same, my door will always be open for you. I'd say, that has to be enough."

Glorfindel vigorously grabbed his neck and pulled him close again, kissing him until he was gasping for air, the touch of his tongue deep in Erestor's mouth eliciting more than one aroused sigh from him.

It was enough.

And today, no one would ask for them for anything anymore that couldn't wait. So, for a change, there was time for _both_ of them to get what they needed.

So Erestor didn't even consider another direction when Glorfindel gently slipped the first finger into his tight hole while they were still busy with that really fantastic kiss. He just spread his legs further and bit down on Glorfindel's lower lip with a quiet moan, pushing against him invitingly, for once without demanding a speed that would only have meant more soreness. Seeing the heat flash in his partner's bright eyes had the hardness between his legs grow even further, had him rub it closely against Glorfindel's just as stiff cock … A sensation that he wanted more of.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from Glorfindel's lips to straighten up, to get his hand between their bodies until he could grab his own cock along with his partner's slightly thicker one. With his head tipped all the way back and quiet moans on his lips, he started moving his hips in the same rhythm that two of these well-practiced fingers inside of him were dictating now, welcoming the conquest with as much enthusiasm as he used it to increase their lust by pumping them both, tightly, quickly. First drops of lust and sweat turned the motion of their bodies into a well-practiced unit … almost a little too well-practiced. Today, Erestor was not in the mood for one of those easy achievable, highly effective but mostly very similar couplings.

Erestor took the chance when Glorfindel let go of him, stopping to knead Erestor's sensitive, reddened nipples tightly, too, to reach for that bowl with salve again. He quickly turned around, ignoring the confused noise on Glorfindel's lips. Much better. Now he could devote himself to Glorfindel's beautiful, big cock with his mouth, with the usual passion but maybe a little more thoroughly this time. In that bag with healing utensils, he fortunately quickly found a small oil vial to support his efforts with the same game that Glorfindel had just driven him mad with.

After a demanding, hard slap to the inside of Glorfindel's thick thigh, he licked the already treacherously moist tip of his lover’s cock, provocatively slowly. Humming quietly, he took in the heavy, pleasant taste, before he slowly lowered his head, softly sucking, without any haste. His fingertips found their target between those now dutifully parted and bent legs, and spread a little bit of the oil there before he slipped them deeply into that tight warmth, slowly but without stopping, pressing upwards firmly when he felt the rough sensation of a very specific spot.

Well-practiced with certain reactions by now, Erestor backed off before Glorfindel could bury himself all the way in his throat with an uncontrolled movement of his hips. His quiet laughter quickly turned to deep groans, because Glorfindel had recovered from his surprise, and a general never allowed himself to be outplayed for longer than a few seconds.

Glorfindel's hands on Erestor's behind guided him downwards a few inches before the alluring wet tightness of Glorfindel's clever mouth engulfed him again, and three fingertips thrust inside of him at once, without as much as a warning. Soon enough, it became impossible to decide which of these delightful sensations Erestor rather wanted to meet.

He finally left it at impaling himself on those slender fingers, because he didn't fully trust his body control in this new and, for his partner, vulnerable position, and went back to his own efforts. Successfully, it seemed; every time, the noises of lust in his throat vibrated against Glorfindel's cock, he could feel his partner's muscles tightening up around him. An encouragement to forego his own preferences every now and then and bring his head down harder, until his stretched lips were pressed firmly against Glorfindel's tense abs and Erestor could see and feel the twitch from up close that tremored through his lower body.

The reward was a moan at least as loud around his almost painfully hard cock, and quicker, challenging movements of that hand giving him so much pleasure at his most sensitive point. Quickly, much too quickly, they got way too close to get rid of all that gathered tension of the last weeks. They let go of each other almost at the same time.

The tip of Erestor's tongue now grazing a visibly pulsating vein of Glorfindel's cock just lightly, he teasingly used his teeth on the head, which earned him an admonishing slap to his behind. Chuckling, he moved to sit up, still not sure which way this would be going next.

But that was when he felt that enticing pair of lips tenderly touching his cock again. A pleading whisper right against the taut skin had him shiver for more than one reason. "Stop holding back. I am not made of glass either."

"Oh, Eru …" The hoarsely murmured words escaped his lips all by themselves when he understood what his friend was offering, what would probably not allow him to last another minute … But it would be worth it.

"Blasphemy before we even got started?" Glorfindel thrust his fingertips into him once more, unapologetic, while easily taking Erestor's heavy balls into his mouth, sucking on tender flesh with his tongue flatly pressed against it.

The uncontrolled, too high keen on Erestor's lips made Glorfindel quickly retreat again though before this really could be over. "Yes? No?"

"I'm just afraid, I can't return the favor half as masterfully," Erestor muttered, maybe more embarrassed than he had ever been in one of those casual intermezzos. Not a feeling he was overly fond of. And that was exactly why they usually avoided coming too close to each other, to communicate much. It was a tightrope walk between respectful mutual satisfaction and the conscious decision against a romantic bond that neither of them had ever been ready for. But so far, they had always managed that. A little emotional weakness that was completely normal so shortly after the unexpected defeat of darkness, couldn't change that.

Neither could the patient, the almost tender smile that Erestor saw on Glorfindel's face when he turned his head, frowning, because his friend asked him to reach back his hand. Caught between fascination and surprise, he allowed Glorfindel to instruct him how to tuck his thumb tightly in his left fist and leave it there.

"Muscle signals, mellon. Old soldier trick." Glorfindel gifted him a playful wink and then went back to work his magic on Erestor's cock which was highly unimpressed by the short interruption, taking in every last inch so easily that there was no doubt what he was hinting at.

Erestor was glad that the newly arising arousal didn't leave room in his head for the question, what kind of activities elven soldiers needed such knowledge for. Curious as always, he immediately began putting it to good use instead. This time, the uncomfortable tightness in his throat indeed never happened. With his eyes tightly closed, breathing heavily, he remained in this position, allowed the quiver of his hips, when Glorfindel picked up that quick rhythm again, stroking his most sensitive point with the same tenacity that he moved his wide-open mouth towards Erestor's lower body with.

And only now, Erestor instinctively started to chase that wonderfully tight sensation, pulling back his own head a few inches, panting. When Glorfindel's hips followed the movement this time, Erestor didn't only allow them to, he also imitated the same movement with his own hips. Carefully at first, but since there was still nothing but encouraging moans coming from that throat he was thrusting into, he dropped his restraints one by one.

In combination with that touch deeply inside of him, of four quickly working fingers now, it took even less than the estimated minute until he fully buried himself in Glorfindel's mouth once more, trembling helplessly, overwhelmed by an orgasm that probably could be heard down in the city still.

For seconds, he was too dazed to even move, much less resume his own caresses. Only when Glorfindel pushed him away a little, when a hoarse whisper reached his ears, he put himself together, but paused at the last moment before he could use his newfound abilities further. Another time. Right now, he longed for something else.

Glorfindel fortunately didn't seem to mind one bit, judging from how he pulled Erestor close immediately when he knelt over him again to face him, aligning his hips with Glorfindel's without a break to take him inside, one hand braced firmly against Glorfindel's strong chest. Erestor was actually a little proud that his touches had made the famous control of a general waver so much that it now was Glorfindel who could hardly hold back anymore.

Caressing Erestor's narrow hips gentler than ever, even in this passive position, he guided him enough to get exactly what he needed now. Occasionally, Glorfindel kept him so close, with his arm wrapped as carefully as possible around his green and blue colored waist, that his thrusts hit that already oversensitive point inside Erestor, until Erestor started writhing in his grasp, completely caught up in their game again already. But only when Erestor grabbed Glorfindel's hair in that possessive gesture again, capturing his mouth in another passionate kiss, shoving his tongue inside, Glorfindel finally lost it. Moaning deeply against Erestor's lips, he emptied himself inside of him, their sweat-covered bodies firmly entwined.

Far more exhausted than it befitted a soldier, Glorfindel sank down deep into the blanket, with his eyes closed, whispering something that Erestor didn't quite get. What he did catch though was the fond amusement when Erestor untangled himself from him and slipped downwards, once more spreading Glorfindel's legs. "Seriously?"

"Never heard you complain so far," Erestor answered just as amused, already busy with the oil again. Humor was good, it took away some of that tension that had crackled between them so threateningly intensively earlier, one that they both weren't ready for by a long shot. Not in these realms, not in this Age, not with the issues they both carried.

This, right here, was so much better for them, whenever they had a chance to do it, and that happened rarely enough anyway.

Today, they made use of those precious hours all the more. A completely wiped out general was basically jelly in Erestor's hands. Only moments later, he had hooked Glorfindel's long legs over his shoulders and completely indulged in the conquest of that tight ass that had already brought him so much pleasure in the past. At least before that first celebration in the Hall of Fire scheduled later today, no one in the city would hopefully miss them, and Erestor planned to make the best of that.

As it turned out, Glorfindel still had a lot of energy to spare after all.


	12. Chapter 12

It was surely not the first time that the sun was rising after the battle of the Black Gate, when Arwen finally was able to move again without pain dragging her right back into unconsciousness. It was the bright beams falling through the half-open tent flap, tickling her skin, that woke her up. She enjoyed the dearly missed sensation of warmth for many long seconds before the memories of the last fight and of many days of an endless dance by the abyss returned with cruel force. Tears streamed down her cheeks before she had even opened her eyes.

She waited until that first surge of weakness had run dry, then she took a look around, still a little dizzy. She was alone, and it also seemed like no one but she had ever been here. The bed next to hers was empty and freshly made, chairs had been neatly stacked in a corner. No healers could be seen anywhere. Only the thick bandages Arwen that felt on her body, let her know that Aragorn had looked after her again and again, just like the weak scent of herbs in the air. And another one, slightly earthy, so faint that only elven senses could pick up on it. And even that only when one had already memorized this very special odor of their beloved many years ago.

Of the other elves, however, that Arwen had thought to see close by in one of her short wake phases, there was no trace left. Had she only dreamed their presence?

Well, what should her old friend Tarisilya of Lórien of all people be doing in this camp anyway? According to what Arwen had learned, Tarisilya had recently turned back in spite of being on her way to Mithlond already, just like her. But she certainly wouldn't have been stupid enough to ride right into a battlefield.

And since the crisis finally seemed to be over, Legolas probably had gone home, if only to finally ask his father for permission to marry the said elf.

The fever had led Arwen to see pictures of some dearly missed friends, that was all.

Now it was time to face the waking reality. Not only a world that would only now begin to recover from the terrors of war but a world in which elves would soon exist only in legends. A world without her family and friends.

And first of all, she had to deal with the consequences of her own almost fatal decision. Her father and her brothers were alright, and those three had not sailed an unreachable distance just yet. That, she felt in the tender connection that Elrond's strong mental abilities once had created between all of them. But now that she could think clearly again for the first time since her defeat, Arwen realized faster and faster how much concern she must have caused the three of them. And that she would have to hurry if she wanted to make up for it.

She stayed still on her back until she had gathered her strength, then she tried to sit up, which ended with a small scream. But she didn't give up. Clenching her teeth in expectance of the pain, she fought her way to sit up, trembling with strain. She waited impatiently until she could breathe again, then took the cup of water waiting next to her bed and emptied it greedily. It felt like she had never had anything to drink before in her whole long life.

When someone entered the tent, she almost choked on the fluid.

Seeing her upright and so spirited, Aragorn didn't seem any less surprised. After the first moment of stiffness, he hurried to the bed and went to his knees beside her, carefully, ever so carefully taking her into his arms. "I didn't expect you to wake up so quickly."

"Only thanks to you, Estel." Arwen had to look twice before she could actually believe who was huddling there in front of her, now that her eyes were no longer clouded by fever.

In a dark red tunic, with a costly wrought black vest and a precious belt, Aragorn looked like a whole different person, no longer like the soldier who had led the men of the West to the Black Gate. He now was once more the heir of an ancient noble house, the man who had been raised in Imladris, the one that Arwen had got to know back then. And though she didn't love and respect the face of the dreamer, of the Dúnadan any less then this exalted charisma, this was the last necessary proof that the long night of Middle-earth was finally over.

Aragorn got up, with his cheeks slightly flushed because of his little outburst, and pulled up a chair. "How bad is the pain?" He examined her face to see if there were any signs of fever left.

Arwen quickly felt uncomfortable under this close mustering. There was something in Aragorn's tired grey eyes, she didn't like. She sensed that he had something unpleasant to tell her. Something that had to do with this ongoing burning throb in her lower body. "Do I have to worry, mîl nín? Is this not a day to celebrate? For so long I've yearned to finally start a new life together with you. But the look on your face could put a horse off running."

Aragorn had to laugh; probably one of the few chances since the fight that he could. Finally, he fulfilled the wish that she had not dared form, leaning forward to kiss her still dry lips, his hand gently resting on her cheek, as if not a day had passed since their last difficult farewell. Arwen's heart stopped sinking immediately. Though she wasn't quite recovered yet, and even though her own stupidity had left her now mortal body with bad wounds: Aragorn was still standing by her and their love.

"I'm really just marveling at how quickly you regained so much strength. Considering how it was in the last few days …"

"What happened at the Black Gate? Is it really over?" Right now that was the only tale of the past, Arwen was interested in.

"Thanks to the courage of Frodo and Sam, yes. Sauron will never harm this world again."

Aragorn paused as if he wanted to give her a chance to ask one of the dozens of questions on her mind. But then he was the one who started to pose the one that surely tortured him the most right now. "Arwen, why …?"

A knock at the entrance interrupted him. An elderly, sturdy healer entered who had apparently done her work for decades already. Aragorn greeted the woman just briefly, paying no further notice to how she put a new water mug on the table and hung fresh clothes for Arwen over one of the chairs.

"Why here, Arwen? I almost lost you …"

Arwen stared down on her blanket in silence, not sure if she was ready for this discussion. Actually, she had hoped that Aragorn of all people would understand her best. "Would you rather have known me to be assaulted and slaughtered by orcs in the house of my father, if the Dark Lord would have won? That way at least, I could be close to you."

Aragorn didn't get a chance to answer. The healer held out her refilled cup to Arwen and put down the mug exaggeratedly loud to get some attention. "This is Gondor's future King, she-elf, and he has fought very hard for your life. Don't you think you should treat him with more gratitude?"

"And this is your future Queen, so you should treat _her_ with more respect," Aragorn answered sharply, mostly out of exhaustion, Arwen saw it in the way, he closed his eyes immediately, cursing silently, running a hand through his hair. The unpleasant scene and that serious disclosure still hanging in the air didn't even allow being fully happy about how he had just titled her. So very naturally, as if her father had finally, officially approved of this union.

"The …? You already have a …?" The healer was visibly speechless. "But Your Majesty, she …" This time, she interrupted herself in time before Aragorn's eyes could light up with anger once more.

"Please, Ioreth … go." Hidden from the healer's eyes, Aragorn's hands turned into fists, he took a deep breath. "I expect of you the same discretion about this information as about Lady Arwen's condition."

It was clear that the healer already had an upset comment on her lips, but then she rushed outside, offended. Secrecy aside, whatever it was that had not been voiced in this conversation, it would, without a doubt, go around instead all the more loudly in the tent city, sooner or later. The people had waited too long for the return of their King to not eat up news of a wife by Aragorn's side. News of even a whole prospective Royal family.

But Arwen had already understood that something here wasn't as it should be at all. That the message of Aragorn's engagement would not only cause joy everywhere. And surely not only because some people met elves with mistrust and rejection by nature.

"Mîl nín? What's wrong with me?"

Why did she even ask? It was really obvious what had happened, and nothing would change about it if she kept on blocking it out. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed to stand up as if to assure herself that it couldn't be that bad. That her body would fully repair itself as it always had. Aragorn's startle, and how he tried to push her back into the pillows immediately, she ignored. "Talk to me, Estel, please."

"Only if you lay back down. Please, Arwen. It's more crucial than you know."

Only when he could be sure that she was comfortable again and not in any pain, he took her right hand with both of his and swallowed thickly. "Your body is still healing faster and better than a Secondborn's, but you have been very badly injured. Right now it's impossible to tell if it will ever be possible for us to have children."

Although Arwen had expected it, trying to brace herself the whole time, it hit her like ice-cold winter rain on unprotected skin. Her lips formed words before she even knew what she wanted to say. "Leave me alone, Estel, please." But the hoarse tone in her voice didn't sound like she meant it even to herself.

And Aragorn didn't need an elf's senses to hear it too. "No, mîl nín. Never, come what may. No matter what they tell us. We will find some way. You hear me? I will not desert you."

Just as gently as before, without any pressure, he took her in his arms so she could hide her face against his shoulder when the tears came back. This time, they were unstoppable.

His own silently fell onto her pillow, yet she knew about every single one of them.

In the following days, Aragorn visited that certain sick tent several times a day, to request updates on Arwen's progress. But now that his beloved was out of danger, he had to spend most of his time healing other patients. Fortunately, those sessions continually abated. Soon the hour approached when the rest of the soldiers still being laid low could be brought to Minas Tirith, to nurse them back to full health. Preparations for that took much of Aragorn's time once more, especially since a whole different daily routine would be coming his way once he entered the White City. But for that, it wasn't time yet, and he was glad – he still wasn't sure if after all those distressing happenings, he was already ready for his new life.

This morning, like so many others recently, he walked through the camp over a cup of tea together with Éomer, and discussed the most considerate way of transport, which at the same time, had to be the quickest. There were still enemies rendering the area unsafe, and they didn't want to lose even a single man to an orc anymore.

Aragorn paused mid-sentence when he spotted an all too well-known shape on the horse paddock. For a moment, he didn't know whether to be happy about his patient's recovery or annoyed about her foolish intention. He motioned Éomer to wait and followed the slender figure.

With his arms crossed, he leaned against the fence. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

Arwen recoiled, unable to bite back a strong elvish curse that the immediately following burning inside her body drew from her lips. "I need to see to Asfaloth. You know that he lets other people get close only grudgingly. Glorfindel would be very upset if I'm not properly looking out for him. And the future King of Gondor has more important things to do than taking care of a single animal."

Her lukewarm attempt at joking didn't even earn her half a grin. "How often do I have to tell you not to call me that? There are reasons I'm not carrying that title yet. It's much too early to celebrate. Get out of there. You can barely stand straight. That you even made it here, is a small miracle." He didn't let Arwen's pout intimidate him. Usually, he was happy to fulfill her every wish; and he knew very well how strong she was, how much she could endure. But as her healer, he still had the last word.

Today, unfortunately, Arwen didn't care. She put down the brush she had used to groom Asfaloth's indeed slightly dull-looking fur and arduously reached for one of the saddles always hanging over the fence, in case a rider had to leave quickly. "He was in the battle just like the other horses. I can only judge if something's wrong with him by riding a few minutes." She actually made it to lift the heavy leather a few inches before she slumped, panting.

A juicy cuss of the Rohirrim that Aragorn had heard from their King more than once, escaped his lips. He nimbly jumped over the fence and carefully helped Arwen to straighten up again. "Not this time, mîl nín. Allow me."

Although Asfaloth knew him of course and Aragorn had even been on his back before – though, admittedly, not for long –, the stallion bolted immediately when he stepped closer. Pausing, Aragorn slowly raised his hands. "No dínen."

Asfaloth kept on prancing, but at least didn't attack Aragorn. After nervously throwing back his head, he allowed him to caress his flank, too.

Aragorn whispered a few more soothing words in Sindarin to him and then leaned against the fence again, next to Arwen, to take her hand.

"He's just as shaken by everything he's seen in Mordor as all of us. But he knows me. If you want me to, I'll take him for a ride – _after_ I brought you back to your tent. Things in the camp can be handled without me until then. We're almost done here with everything anyway. Once we reach the city, we'll send a message to Imladris immediately so Glorfindel can come to get him."

Reluctantly, Arwen allowed him to lead her a few steps away but then freed herself. "Estel, listen … I can't come with you to Minas Tirith, not right away." She looked past him consequently when his eyes went wide, falling into an awkward silence.

"Why? What's important enough for you to risk your health for it, when I only just managed to save you?" Aragorn didn't sound half as calmly as intended, able to sense already that his partner wouldn't be listening to any well-intentioned words. Or maybe he only grew angry because he actually knew exactly what she would be telling him. And even worse, because she was right.

Arwen lowered her gloomy eyes to the ground. "I have to go back to Imladris, only for a little while. My father deserves me spending a little more time with him before he leaves these realms. Besides, maybe together with the twins, he can help me. You know … They have to try at least. Too much depends on it. And they can't all come here, there's still way too much to do for that in the valley."

Aragorn tiredly pinched the bridge of his nose. Yes, a lot depended on his beloved's full recovery. That was not worth it at all though, letting her ride through half of Middle-earth alone. Even if he would have provided her with soldiers and a healer, he wouldn't have had a single calm minute until she would be back with him. Not to mention that he couldn't take office with this worry in his heart, not with so many things still unresolved. Rumors had long spread among the soldiers and surely in the city, as well, that Arwen was not some common elf who had been cast up in Gondor by accident.

With a resigned huff, Aragorn reached for the saddle again and placed it on Asfaloth's back. "Go get some more rest, please. I'll be back soon."

"Where are you going?" Frowning, Arwen watched him pull the cinch tight, visibly confused because he had not reacted to her disclosure with even one word.

He didn't like it, leaving her in the dark, but he also hated promising something he might not be able to keep. Aragorn hoped that she would understand. At the latest when he would come back from his little trip, hopefully with good news. "I need to talk to Faramir and Mithrandir. It won't take long. I'll be back tomorrow at the latest."

Leading Asfaloth out of the paddock, he corrected the stirrups that one odd inch he was taller than Arwen and calmingly patted the neck of the still restless animal. "You need exercise, mellon, don’t you? That can be arranged."

He waved at Éomer pleadingly who understood immediately and got on Firefoot's back as well. This matter concerned Rohan as well.

Without waiting for another answer of his beloved, Aragorn urged Asfaloth into a trot.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * ada = father
> 
> ####################
> 
> With that chapter, part #3 of the series is finished, and part #4 will start in a week. There's some cruel deaths and some sappy fluff coming up. Check out part #1 and #2 here on AO3 if you haven't so far!

No matter how inappropriate, ridiculous even, it was for the future King: Aragorn didn't quite feel at home yet in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. To settle into a building with countless rooms, way too many of them serving the same purpose on top, that took someone a while who had lived in the wilderness for so long and set up their tent wherever it wasn't washed away by rain. Not that Aragorn was a complete stranger to a life of comfort as opposed to gagging down a dated ration somewhere between fighting and his morning training in the dirt. After all, he had grown up in Imladris like a biological son of Lord Elrond himself. There, he had been paid the same amount of respect as in the capital now.

Even in the years of his exile, he'd visited his home with the elves time and again, to recover and gather his strength, to bear the loneliness that had eventually become a part of himself more and more. But this utter contrast to an existence with which he had wanted to earn the dignity of his fate first, had always been like a stay in the life of another. At times, he had not even really known anymore what he was waiting for. Had wondered if maybe both his foster father and Mithrandir were mistaken about him. Especially in the long years when it had seemed, the evil in Mordor had fallen into a deep sleep again. More than once, Aragorn had felt, the only right place for him was at his campfire, singing songs about the noble fathers of the old days whom he wasn't ranking among.

Ever since the last battle, this feeling sometimes came back. A small part of him probably couldn't believe yet that all this fighting and waiting had indeed not been for nothing. Hearing his own footsteps echo in the halls of the Citadel still was just too unreal, as was spending almost every minute with some kind of wish or enquiry instead of listening to the sounds of nature in solitude.

Therefore, he was very grateful that Faramir invited Mithrandir, Imrahil, Éomer and him to his private chambers for the meeting that Aragorn had asked for. At an old wooden table by a chimney fire, over a mug of wine, Aragorn already felt far more comfortable and could speak more freely, too, than it would be possible in the huge council hall.

And it was about high time he did, not only because of Arwen. He finally had to deal with his immediate future. Explain to the other realm leaders as comprehensible as possible the plan that had spontaneously formed in him when Arwen had told him what she was planning. What was weighing on her mind just as much as on his, and what neither of them could run from. Aragorn couldn't make the excuse that he had duties in the camp any longer.

People were waiting for him to turn to his fate. For celebrating the victorious battles properly, in the shape of an event that the Men of Gondor had been looking forward to for centuries.

Aragorn hated the idea of having to put them off for another while. The citizens honestly deserved a bit of joy after the first exhausting rebuilding operations and the grief still dominating their everyday life, even after Sauron's fall. The festivities on the Field of Cormallen in honor of Frodo and Sam had been one of the few bright spots thus far, in this time, marked also by many belated losses.

The memory of the small heroes' intimidated expressions, as it had been way too much honor for them, sitting down on a throne so everyone could praise them, had Aragorn smile for a moment. The two friends had achieved so much but were too shy to accept any glory. Well, at least _they_ surely wouldn't mind having to wait some more for another day like that.

When the piercing eyes of the others resting on him became too unpleasant, Aragorn took heart and started to speak.

In such a warm, informal atmosphere, even shocked silence didn't feel as bad as in a throne room.

"This is not a good thought." Faramir was the first to raise his voice, long moments after Aragorn had blindsided the others by having to leave Gondor for a lengthy trip with Arwen.

The son of the deceased Steward kept on stretching on his chair, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. It wasn't hard to see that his injuries were still troubling him. Actually, he should still be in the Houses of Healing. And not only because someone was apparently waiting for him there, which Aragorn, with mild surprise and happy relief, had understood from a few whispered rumors among the healers in the last days.

"I'm sure you have your reasons, and it is not my place to bring those into question. But you and your skills are in demand here more than ever right now. People probably hoped that you would be crowned King right at the city gate when you showed up here earlier."

"I'm well aware that my absence will be causing some turmoil, but I am confident that we will master it together." Aragorn regarded the young man on his right with a warm smile.

The slightly softer features, the reddish long curls couldn't belie his resemblance to Boromir, and that was only appearances. Faramir had his brother's courage and the determination, and more spirit and will on top than his father had shown in his final days. He also was one of the few who understood Aragorn's wish to be addressed by his birth name, until the precise circumstances of the reign over Gondor would be clear. Faramir would be an excellent Steward once he lost his reservations. This budding relationship with a woman like Éowyn, bristling with confidence, would hopefully help him with that.

"Far be it from me to anger the people. I will explain the situation to them myself."

"If you find the right words, they will understand," Mithrandir thoughtfully tossed in from the side, his cold pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. He wasn't too thrilled with Aragorn's decision himself but didn't even question it for even a second. After all, he had known him since long before the war and knew, Aragorn did nothing in his life without a reason.

"Well, _I_ would like to understand too," Imrahil said. "What can be more important than your responsibility here, Aragorn?"

"The Queen." Mithrandir started to pack his pipe as if he had all the time in the world, paying no attention to the others' stunned faces. "Tidings have spread already that Aragorn treated his future wife in the camp of Cair Andros, didn't they? So this development shouldn't surprise you. The noble elf Arwen Elrondiel has been chosen to lead the people of this country by Aragorn's side one day. Just like the King, she can only do that with an open heart and pink of health."

Aragorn shortly lowered his head in his direction, thankful that Mithrandir hadn't revealed the details of Arwen's injury. To his knowledge, those were not known to the folk; at least the healers had been that discreet. As long as he didn't know if Arwen's family could help her, he didn't want to disturb the people with rumors.

"We will not be gone from the White City for long, that I can promise. Lady Arwen gives up her life in the Undying Lands and her family, to be by my side. She deserves to lay eyes on her home once more. And on the way, I can arrange for several important things."

"Aragorn has to go to see the Dúnedain who weren’t at the Black Gate with us," Mithrandir filled in for him once again because Imrahil still didn't seem enthusiastic. "In spite of the regality that now lies ahead of him, he is still their leader and will always be. They're waiting for his orders. The Dúnedain have to keep securing the lands once Aragorn has been crowned. They will hunt down and destroy the last of hostile orc lowlife that dares to enter the lands of Gondor and seek out peace with those who want it. After that, the lands in the north will be calling for them again. There's still much darkness prevailing there, and the areas are deserted, but down the road, not only Gondor will be under Aragorn's governance."

"Arnor." It was Éomer, uttering the name of the former realm of the Dúnedain in a respectful whisper. Most people only knew legends about the old realm now, and about why it had been deserted back then.

"Correct." Satisfied with his work, Mithrandir looked for a flame to light his pipe and finally just snapped one over from the fireplace.

"It is not certain yet that the people there will accept Aragorn's sovereignty. The matters of Arnor have been separated from Gondor's for ages. The inhabitants have their own particular problems, wherefore hardly any of them could assist us in the war. One of the King's biggest challenges will be unifying his realms once more. This trip indeed offers a good opportunity to start that. First, Aragorn has to find out how things are in Arnor, before he can rebuild old structures. The city can do without him for another while, I'll make sure of that. Don't fret. You know, your King has a fast horse, don't you? His absence will end quickly."

"I would much appreciate that," Faramir mentioned with a weak smile. "I will do my best to substitute for you, as much as my own health makes it possible at this point, but I can't deny that the thought of this first trial causes unease. I am not my father or Boromir. I feel like a blind man fumbling along his way. I want to disappoint neither you nor the citizens."

"You will not." Aragorn put his hand on his shoulder for a long moment. "True, you are not your father or your brother. You have proven more strength and wisdom than both of them and survived a war that has carried off many other men. The people trust you and your name, although your father in the past hasn't always done everything properly. I couldn't leave back anyone better to soothe people's minds after this long time of suffering. But do go easy on your body, until you feel really well again, I have to insist on that. I will provide you with the help of my Ring Companion Gimli. He's already agreed days ago to supervise the rebuilding measures in Minas Tirith."

"Thank you." When Faramir looked up, the insecurity on his face had been replaced by new courage. "Go. Go with your beloved. Take care of whatever makes your and her heart sink. The citizens and I will be looking forward to the day when Gondor is finally allowed to congratulate its new King on his coronation."

"This day is no longer far, at least that I can say for certain." Aragorn raised his cup for a moment, a silent gesture of confirmation that the others repeated after a short moment of hesitation.

Aragorn would have preferred to ride back without a break, to inform Arwen and organize the final transport of the soldiers. But the discussion earlier had made clear how short time was.

Hence why the speech also turned out short with which Faramir and he, after a short meeting in private, addressed the few soldiers present in Minas Tirith right now. Present in the yard were also Denethor's old staff and many civilians, who quickly gathered in the Citadel court when tidings were going around that the future King wanted to let his people know something.

As predicted by Mithrandir, the citizens seemed disappointed but able to comprehend Aragorn's motives. That his farewell meant only a delay and the final certainty that the warlord who had lad the Free Folks to triumph, was indeed ready to rule this country in the future, allowed for people's leniency.

An announcement at the end of the speech then that Faramir managed to surprise even Aragorn with, did the rest to leave the people with rejoicing instead of anger. At least in the matter of dramaturgy, the son of the late Steward seemed to take a little bit after his father after all …

Tactically motivated move or not, the people were happy. They would hopefully spread the news to the rest of the citizens in an accordingly forgiving manner.

After this first ordeal, Aragorn was forced to take another few minutes to obtain several things for the upcoming travel in the Citadel, for himself as well as for his beloved. Not only another supply of healing herbs but also tents and rations, just like spare clothes – after all, they both had only available what they were wearing right now. That was something he needed to take care of now, because starting from Arwen's sickbed, they would make straight for Imladris.

And before that, Aragorn had another difficult path to set foot on. So far, he hadn't been sure if he even wanted that. But he just couldn't leave Gondor on his own like that. These times were over, he was no longer his own master alone.

So the ride back to his beloved included a detour.

When Tarisilya had been well enough for transport, Aragorn had personally accompanied her and Legolas out to the woods of North Ithilien, in accessible proximity to the sick camp. Since the Dúnedain had had the security of the area well under control without another bow in their ranks, Legolas had asked to be alone with his partner for a while, far from the curious eyes of healers and other patients. Aragorn had accepted that, though he had only reluctantly left the she-elf out of sight so early.

But he hadn't needed worry, at least not about that. When he stopped Asfaloth on a clearing where the elves had made themselves at home in a small tent, he saw them lying in the grass, in the shade of a big oak tree, holding hands without talking or even looking at each other. The two of them visibly enjoyed the silence, far away from the turmoil among the soldiers, completely content and happy.

Aragorn paused because something confused him, and he was unable to tell what it was. Only after long seconds, he realized that he had not seen Legolas without resilient combat fatigues and his weapons for a long time. The sight emphasized that still so unfamiliar feeling of freedom and made it easier to understand that peace was indeed about to come to Middle-earth.

In the last year, Aragorn had nearly forgotten, but elves, albeit they were excellent warriors, should actually never be forced to raise a weapon or even worse, be flattened by the dangers of war, be torn away from their families and the place they had roots in for a long time, to heal in body and mind in the Halls of Mandos. This was exactly why there were fewer Firstborn on Middle-earth by the year – why there wouldn't be any left one day. Evil would arise here again and again, though Aragorn would do everything for such a horrible war to never happen again. The grace of the Valar granted the Firstborn to be safe from all this.

The sadness about this would live on in Aragorn, and in everyone who had ever had the privilege of meeting one of these noble beings. That hopefully, no elf would ever fall victim to the blade of a man again, brightened the melancholy in his soul a little.

With a small smile, he approached his friends. At the same time, he let his eyes roam over Tarisilya's body out of habit alone, to check on her condition.

Her complexion looked far healthier, and the light, tight-fitted dress revealed that she had put on weight. Legolas had obviously done a great job of encouraging her to sleep and eat.

"I hope, I'm not disturbing anything."

"That depends on your desire, mellon." Legolas lazily opened one eye, obviously judged that Aragorn didn't look bad enough to worry that something could have happened, and closed it again. "If Gimli is complaining again that I'm not lending him a hand, tell him …"

"By now he understood, there are things more important to you at the moment," Aragorn interrupted, gently enough. "I'm here because it is I who needs your help, Legolas."

It was almost like in Faramir's living room – when Aragorn had ended, awkward silence prevailed.

Aragorn didn't miss the way, Tarisilya eyed her betrothed, with narrow eyes, expecting a decision that he couldn't make right away.

Legolas fled this gaze by getting up on the oak, as so often when he retreated to think. His knee-length bright tunic suffered not a single hole or stain. For so long Aragorn had known elves already, and sometimes their feathery way to move still surprised him. "You're going through a lot of trouble, considering that Lord Elrond and the twins could come here as well."

"By now you really should know my highly developed urge to help others."

Aragorn shortly grinned at Tarisilya, which the elf answered by blushing in embarrassment. But now, she visibly didn't feel like grinning herself anymore.

He had to hurry to explain, or he'd just have seen the last of harmonic mood for today. "Come down, mellon. I prefer to look people in the eye when I talk to them."

That Legolas didn't even react, Aragorn acknowledged with a comment about certain elves not having come of age yet, murmured loud enough for everyone present on purpose.

"So shortly after the end of the war, ada can't leave for an immeasurable period of time, especially not along with my foster brothers. There's still way too many threats around for that, and too much to do. Would your father leave Mirkwood for weeks now of all times? See? Besides, this is not only about a cure. Arwen left without a good-bye to help us at the Black Gate, you know that as well as I do. It's not only her family who will soon go to Valinor forever. I owe her this journey. And did I not just demonstrate to you the healing powers that the atmosphere of a familiar environment can have? My love for Arwen is not conditional on whether she gives the realm children, but if there's even the slightest chance that she can be helped, we need to seize it."

Aragorn took a deep breath. "I haven't come to get your blessing though, Legolas. You've known me for too long and you know me to well to not realize that."

Legolas rubbed his forehead in agitation and turned to look at Tarisilya. "It wouldn't take long …"

The actually quite deep, husky voice of his betrothed now had a nuance of whole masses of snow. "Since the beginning of this war, I feared every day to receive the message of your death. And now you want to go back out there where there's still plenty of enemies everywhere? Forgive me if my enthusiasm is limited."

Aragorn pleadingly raised one hand. "This is exactly the conversation course I meant to avoid. Of course, it would be an honor and my pleasure, if you would come with me too, Tarisilya. Arwen would surely love some company as well. You two are close, aren't you?" He wanted to explain his proposal in more detail but got rudely cut off.

Legolas had probably seldom jumped down from a tree so quickly in his life. "If you want to bring an elf along on a journey who just got almost killed in battle, that's your decision. But in my family, it is _not_ common that she-elves ride out with a bow and a sword every day. Ada and I had to learn that lesson the hard way as you should know."

"Who said anything about that?" Though Tarisilya winced a little at the mention of the fate of Legolas' mother that he was hardly ever talking about as it was, she was a lot fonder of that idea. Maybe partly out of a hint of defiance, considering how she had rolled her eyes at Legolas' patronization. An old issue of dispute seemed to be in the room there. "Provided I can at least be by your side this time, to patch you up when you get yourself in trouble once more, I will gladly join you two. You can't lock me in for the rest of my life, Legolas."

Gently but firmly, she took her betrothed's hand, forcing him to look at her. "I'm a healer as you should know. I know very well how much can be asked of patients. I will faithfully make sure that neither Arwen nor I will overstrain ourselves. And I trust your abilities as well as His Majesty's to protect us, whatever threats might still be lurking out there."

Shaking his head, Legolas looked back and forth between Aragorn and her. "You imagine that a little bit too easy."

Aragorn's shoulders slumped, he had to warn himself to stay calm. "Do you really think I would expose Tarisilya and Arwen to danger? If you do not even think me competent enough to take care of two companions, maybe I shouldn't be seizing power over a whole race, should I? Somehow, I'm always the one you're venting your worry about your betrothed on. Kindly choose someone for that who begrudges you anyway. Then we wouldn't want to take each others' head off again and again."

When Legolas raised a protest, it was Aragorn's turn to cut him off this time. "And Tarisilya is right: This will be a normal journey, not a secret one. No one will make an attempt on our lives since we're not carrying a precious treasure anymore that the enemy is yearning for."

When Legolas let out a resigning growl, a mischievous smile curled on Aragorn's lips. "Besides, maybe the Master Elf remembers the meaning that Imladris has for elven realms. Under that circumstance, he might be able to come up with a good reason for taking his betrothed along after all."

Tarisilya's beaming smile said it all.

And Aragorn held his breath.

If Aragorn had thought to be able to convince Legolas by mentioning the neutral protective role Imladris' had been holding in the elven world for millennias already, he would face disappointment. Legolas' expression grew even darker.

Going to Imladris with Tarisilya, as her partner, officially, meant that after revealing their relationship to Men, going public in the elven world now as well. Before Legolas had even talked to his father about it. That he was ready for the dispute with Thranduil about his love for a charge of Lady Galadriel, didn't mean he was looking forward to it. Actually, he had wanted to approach this thing slowly and deliberately.

But Aragorn's reproach had hit him hard. It was true that his serenity immediately was thrown off balance as soon as it was about Tarisilya. While that might be normal if you had never experienced love before, it was still unworthy of an elf to constantly lose your nerves like that. If his father brought up that point of criticism, he would probably have to agree. No, he wouldn't be able to protect his beloved from everything day and night. He had to learn how to handle that. Maybe plunging in at the deep end was necessary for that.

For seconds, Legolas kept his eyes fixed on the woods as if he could find a solution for his conflict there. Exposing himself to trouble again, of which he had actually had more than enough, for weeks … He wasn't too happy. On the other hand, he had promised Tarisilya something, and waiting wouldn't change anything about their delicate situation.

In the end, it also was Tarisilya who made the decision for him. "I don't want to act against your will, Legolas, but I for one want to fulfill His Majesty's wish. You have saved my life."

She curtsied in Aragorn's direction, not too exaggerated and still reverent enough to express her gratitude.

"If it's not him and Arwen you want to support, don't you want to make sure at least that nothing happens to me?"

"Are you blackmailing me right now?" Legolas asked, already a lot more irritated again than he should be.

Tarisilya tiredly rubbed her temples. Suddenly she looked almost as exhausted as a few days ago. "If you stopped climbing trees every time, somebody tries to tell you something, you would see that I only want to help. I had twenty years to learn how to handle worrying for a partner. You're only standing at the beginning. It won't get any better if you turn a blind eye to this."

His lips tightly pressed together, Legolas turned away and left the others standing there to crawl into the tent. "We should pack if we want to leave soon."


End file.
